STEPHEN    MCKENMA 


SONIA  MARRIED 
STEPHEN  MCKENNA 


"As  a  clownish  Fellow  was  driving  his  cart  along  a  deep  miry 
lane,  the  wheel  stuck  so  fast  in  the  clay,  that  his  horse  could  not 
draw  it  out.  Upon  this  he  fell  a  bawling  and  praying  to  Hercules 
to  come  and  help  him.  Hercules,  looking  down  from  a  cloud,  bid 
him  not  to  lie  there  like  an  idle,  dastardly  booby  as  he  was,  but  get 
up  and  whip  his  horse,  and  clap  his  shoulder  stoutly  to  the  wheel, 
adding  that  this  was  the  only  way  for  him  to  obtain  assistance." 

The  Fables  of  JEsop:  "Hercules  and  the  Carter." 


SONIA  MARRIED 


BY 

STEPHEN  MCKENNA 

AUTHOR  OP  "SONIA,"   "iflDAS  AND  SON,"   "NINETY-SIX 
HOURS'  LEAVE,"  ETC. 


NEW  ^ISJr  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  IQig, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY  THE  METROPOLITAN  PUBLICATIONS,  INC. 


PRINTED    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


EPISTLE  DEDICATORY 


To  WALTER  FRANCIS  ROCH 

My  dear  Roch, 

Ever  since  you  read  "SONIA"  in  manuscript,  you  have 
been  the  book's  most  generous  critic.  May  I  mark  my 
gratitude  for  this  and  for  a  friendship  older  than  "SONIA" 
by  dedicating  its  successor  to  you?  Perhaps  you  remem- 
ber openly  doubting  whether  in  fact  the  spiritual  shock 
of  war  could  so  change  and  steady  Sonia  as  to  make  her  a 
fitting  wife  for  any  man,  O'Rane  most  of  all;  you  may 
recollect  my  confessing  that  such  a  marriage  of  hysterical 
impulse  contained  the  seeds  of  instant  disaster. 

Sequels  are  admittedly  failures,  but  I  look  on  this  book 
less  as  a  sequel  than  as  an  epilogue  or  footnote.  Sonia  was 
not  to  know  happiness  until  she  had  suffered,  and  the 
sacrifice  in  the  early  days  of  war  was  to  many  a  new  and 
heady  self-indulgence.  It  is  the  length  of  the  war,  the 
sickening  repetition  of  one  well-placed  blow  after  another 
on  the  same  bruised  flesh  that  has  tested  the  survivors. 
After  a  year  of  war  O'Rane  could  have  mustered  many  fol- 
lowers, when  he  murmured  to  himself,  "I — all  of  us  who 
were  out  there — have  seen  it.  We  can't  forget.  The 
courage,  the  cold,  heart-breaking  courage  .  .  .  and  the 
smile  on  a  dying  man's  face.  .  .  .  We  must  never  let  it  be 
forgotten,  we've  earned  the  right.  As  long  as  a  drunkard 
kicks  his  wife,  or  a  child  goes  hungry,  or  a  woman  is 
driven  through  shame  to  disease  and  death.  .  .  .  Is  it  a 
great  thing  to  ask?  To  demand  of  England  to  remember 
that  the  criminals  and  loafers  and  prostitutes  are  some- 
body's children,  mothers  and  sisters?  And  that  we've  all 
been  saved  by  a  miracle  of  suffering?  Is  that  too  great 

vii 

5.1 06  -4  () 


viii  EPISTLE  DEDICATORY 

a  strain  on  our  chivalry?  I'll  go  out  if  need  be,  but — but 
must  we  stand  at  street  corners  to  tell  what  we've  seen? 
To  ask  the  bystanders — and  ourselves — whether  we  went  to 
war  to  preserve  the  right  of  inflicting  pain  ?" 

After  four  years  of  war  do  you  find  many  traces  of 
O'Rane's  crusading  spirit?  Loring,  he  and  a  thousand 
others  intrigued  and  pulled  wires  to  be  sent  out  before  their 
turn;  since  they  lost  their  lives  or  eyes  or  limbs,  we  have 
seen  their  places  filled  by  men  who  were  first  jeered  and 
shamed,  later  pricked  and  driven  into  the  army,  under  the 
amused  gaze  of  their  more  fortunate  fellows  who  had  in- 
trigued and  pulled  wires  to  be  kept  at  home!  We  have 
watched  conscience  being  made  a  penal  offence  and  perse- 
cution exalted  into  patriotism.  We  have  seen  self-denial, 
like  self-sacrifice,  made  statutory;  and  the  comprehensive 
plea  of  war  has  excused  the  recrudescence  of  that  feverish 
licence  which  many  of  us  superstitiously  felt  the  war  had 
been  sent  to  end.  Financially,  morally  and  politically  we 
were  living  on  the  last  few  hundreds  of  our  capital.  And  in 
public  life  the  war  stepped  in  where  honour  feared  to 
tread. 

I  dedicate  this  book  to  you  in  sympathy,  because  we 
would  both  recapture,  if  we  could,  O'Rane's  first  fine  care- 
less rapture.  But  there  is  little  permanence  in  collective 
moral  upheavals;  action  and  reaction  are  equal  and  oppo- 
site, and  the  same  violence  which  transformed  the  world  in 
1914  has  hastened  the  return  to  pre-1914  conditions.  The 
House  of  Commons,  as  you  know  it,  and  the  society  outside 
the  House  of  Commons,  as  I  know  it,  are  not  going  to 
legislate  a  new  world  into  existence  in  the  spirit  of  the 
Constituent  Assembly.  We  have  worked,  like  old  Bertrand 
Oakleigh,  through  the  phases  of  extravagant  hope  and 
premature  pessimism;  we  are  tired  and  dispirited,  chiefly 
anxious  to  end  the  strain,  glad  if  we  can  curtail  the 
slaughter,  though  we  are  growing  used  to  this,  but  con- 
cerned more  for  securing  the  peace  of  the  world  in  our  life- 
time than  for  declaring  any  other  dividend  on  the  lives 
which  have  been  expended.  "We  shall  be  dazed  and 
bruised  before  an  end  is  made,  laddie,  staggering  like 


EPISTLE  DEDICATORY  ix 

drunken  men,"  as  Dr.  Burgess  prophesied  in  "SONIA," 
"Peradventure,  if  ye  speak  of  the  Promised  Land,  men 
will  arise  and  stone  you  with  stones,  saying,  'Would  to 
God  we  had  died  by  the  hand  of  the  Lord  in  the  land 
of  Egypt,  when  ve  sat  by  the  fleshpots,  and  when  we  did 
eat  bread  to  the  full/  I  am  an  old  man,  laddie,  and  old 
men  and  weary  men,  broken  with  the  cares  of  this  life, 
are  fain  to  go  back  to  the  things  they  know." 

What  is  left  to  those  who  are  weak  or  obstinate  enough 
to  feel  that  the  things  they  know  are  capable  of  improve- 
ment and  that  man  is  essentially  perfectible?  If  a  collec- 
tive revival  flicker  to  smoking  extinction,  can  you  attain  the 
same  results  from  the  aggregate  of  individual  efforts? 
O'Rane,  you  will  find,  tries  both  extremes. 

Always  cordially  yours, 

STEPHEN  M°KENNA. 

Lincoln's  Inn,  1918. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

EPISTLE  DEDICATORY vii 

CHAPTER 

I  AN  ARABIAN  NIGHT 15 

II  THE  OPEN  DOOR 51 

III  SONIA  O'RANE 96 

IV  THE  DOOR  CLOSED 146 

V  THE  LIMITS  OF  LOYALTY 191 

VI  THE  UNWRITTEN  LAW 241 

VII  THE  DOOR  RE-OPENED 291 

VIII  SANCTUARY 338 


SONIA  MARRIED 


SONIA    MARRIED 


CHAPTER  ONE 

AN    ARABIAN    NIGHT 

".  .  .  Is  it  not  singular,  and  almost  touching,  to  see  Paris  City 
drawn  out,  in  the  meek  May  nights,  in  civic  ceremony,  which  they 
call  'Souper  Fraternel'  Brotherly  Supper?  .  .  .  See  it,  O  Night! 
With  cheerfully  pledged  wine-cup,  hobnobbing  to  the  Reign  of  Lib- 
erty, Equality,  Brotherhood,  with  their  wives  in  best  ribands,  with 
their  little  ones  romping  round,  the  Citoyens,  in  frugal  Love-feast, 
sit  there.  Night  in  her  wide  empire  sees  nothing  similar.  O  my 
brothers,  why  is  the  reign  of  Brotherhood  not  come;  It  is  come, 
it  shall  have  come,  say  the  Citoyens  frugally  hobnobbing. — Ah  me! 
these  everlasting  stars,  do  they  not  look  down  'like  glistening  eyes, 
bright  with  immortal  pity,  over  the  lot  of  man!'  .  .  ." 

THOMAS  CARLYLE:    "French  Revolution" 


AFTER  twelve  months  in  an  Austrian  internment  camp, 
the  roar  and  movement,  the  familiar  smell  and  glare  of 
London  streets  were  stupefying. 

I  had  arrived  in  Vienna  a  week  before  the  mobilisation 
order  was  issued;  my  mission  was  to  secure  the  services 
of  certain  physicians  and  surgeons  for  a  new  hospital  which 
I  had  in  contemplation,  and,  though  I  was  conscious  of 
unwonted  restlessness,  though  my  young  friends  in  the 
Chancery  were  kept  working  late,  the  recent  ultimatum  to 
Servia  could  never,  I  felt,  involve  England  in  war.  So 
time  went  by,  the  hotels  emptied,  but  I  preferred  to  trust 
my  own  judgement  and  went  on  trusting  it  until  war  had 
been  declared.  I  knew  Vienna  so  well,  I  had  lived  there 
so  long  and  made  so  many  friends  from  my  earliest  days 

15 


1 6  SONIA  MARRIED 

at  the  Embassy'- 'thai  I:  atn;  afraid  I  continued  to  trust  my 
judgement  and  to  back  my  luck  even  after  I  had  become 
technically  scheduled  as  an  enemy  alien;  and,  when  the 
reluctant  authorities  more  in  sorrow  than  anger  placed 
me  under  surveillance,  we  all  felt  that  a  mistake  had  been 
made  and  that  I  should  have  only  to  ask  for  my  release 
to  obtain  it.  Was  I  not  well  over  the  most  extravagant 
military  age?  Was  I  not  physically  unfit  to  bear  arms? 
Could  I  not  at  any  time  have  left  Vienna  with  the  Embassy 
Staff? 

I  was  to  find  from  August,  1914,  until  July,  1915,  that 
the  aspirations  of  the  Litany  for  the  well-being  of  pris- 
oners and  captives  were  neutralised  by  the  reluctance  of 
constituted  authority  to  disturb  the  status  quo.  I  was  se- 
cure in  my  loose-box  on  a  race-course  five  miles  from 
Vienna;  wire  entanglements  discouraged  my  comings  and 
goings,  arc-lamps  laid  me  bare  to  the  vigilance  of  the 
sentries ;  what  good  purpose  could  be  served  by  setting  me 
at  large  ?  My  brother  made  the  one  appearance  of  his  life 
in  the  House  of  Lords  to  raise  me  as  an  issue  and  to  urge 
the  exchange  of  civilian  prisoners;  memorials  were  pre- 
sented to  the  Foreign  Office ;  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  in  the 
first  convulsion  of  war  I  and  my  few  thousand  fellow  pris- 
oners did  not  matter. 

I  was  interned  for  a  twelvemonth.  And,  writing  now 
in  the  third  year  of  the  war,  I  doubt  whether  I  shall  ever 
make  good  the  knowledge  which  was  then  withheld  from 
me.  The  newspapers  were  censored  or  inspired  for  pur- 
poses of  propaganda;  my  colourless  letters  from  England 
were  enriched  by  half-page  smears  of  indelible  black.  Be- 
tween ignorance  of  what  they  might  say  and  what  I  might 
receive,  my  correspondents  confined  themselves  to  business 
discussions  and  bald  family  history.  My  brother  wrote  of 
his  son  Archie's  death  in  the  retreat  from  Mons ;  my  niece 
Yolande  Manisty  told  me  that  she  and  her  husband  had 
moved  into  my  house  in  Pont  Street  and  were  attending 
to  my  affairs  as  best  they  might.  A  further  letter  brought 
me  the  shocking  news  of  Deryk  Lancing's  death  on  the  eve 


AN  ARABIAN  NIGHT  17 

of  war,  with  consequences  to  myself  which  I  required  many 
weeks  to  digest.  .  .  .  After  that  there  were  guarded  and 
bewildered  little  notes  from  Felix  Manisty,  who  is  a  greater 
archaeologist  than  man  of  affairs;  there  were  voluminous 
technical  enquiries  from  Hatherly,  my  solicitor,  a  weekly 
budget  from  Yolande  and  sporadic  outbursts  from  friends 
who  had  heard  of  my  internment  and  felt  constrained  to 
write  one  letter  to  cheer  my  loneliness. 

In  July,  after  a  year  of  false  starts,  an  exchange  of  pris- 
oners was  finally  arranged;  in  the  last  week  of  the  month 
I  returned  deviously  through  Switzerland  and  France, 
landed  in  a  most  unrecognisable  England,  reported  myself 
at  an  equally  unrecognisable  Foreign  Office  and  then  stood, 
much  as  I  had  stood  forty  years  earlier  with  a  crowd  of 
other  shy  new  boys  at  Eton,  wondering  what  I  was  ex- 
pected to  do  next.  In  the  roar  and  movement,  the  smell 
and  glare  of  London  streets,  I  had  ceased  to  have  any 
property.  The  people  were  different,  there  was  an  in- 
credible number  of  soldiers  about.  And  everyone  seemg^ 
to  have  been  getting  on  very  satisfactorily  without  me.  .  .  . 

I  remember  walking  a  few  steps  towards  the  House  of 
Commons,  but  I  did  not  know  whether  the  House  was 
sitting;  I  turned  back  to  Trafalgar  Square  with  some  idea 
of  taking  a  train  to  Hampstead  and  visiting  my  office,  but 
I  had  abandoned  it  for  twelve  months.  If  I  called  on 
Hatherly  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields,  I  should  be  told  that  he 
was  at  Ripley  Court;  if  I  went  home,  I  should  find  that 
Yolande  and  Felix  were  both  out.  ...  It  was  salutary, 
I  am  sure,  to  find  the  measure  of  my  importance,  but  it 
left  me  very  lonely,  I  felt  for  some  reason  that  not  only 
was  I  not  wanted  but  that  I  had  no  right  to  be  there.  Eng- 
land seemed  to  have  been  taken  over  as  a  going  concern  by 
a  new  management,  which  was  in  a  great  hurry.  .  .  . 

I  passed  through  the  Admiralty  Arch  and  looked  round 
me.  New  Zealanders  and  Australians,  bronzed  and  big- 
boned  in  summer  khaki,  South  Africans,  with  their  hats 
pinched  to  a  point,  were  strolling  up  and  down  the  Strand, 
in  twos  and  threes,  gravely  smoking  cigarettes;  a  slow- 


1 8  SONIA  MARRIED 

speaking  Canadian  enquired  of  me  the  way  to  Westminster 
Abbey;  in  St.  James'  Park  two  brakes  passed  me  filled 
with  Indian  troops,  turbaned,  silent  and  undemonstrative. 
I  remember  that  certain  German  prints  had  described  the 
British  Army  as  a  menagerie .... 

Through  the  Arch,  I  could  see  a  stream  of  motor  omni- 
buses hurrying  into  Trafalgar  Square  and  displaying  long 
posters  in  a  red  and  white  streak— "LORD  KITCHENER 
WANTS  YOU,"  "LEND  YOUR  STRONG  RIGHT 
ARM"— on  the  Horse  Guards*  Parade  recruits  were  wait- 
ing their  turn  by  the  long  wooden  sheds  at  the  Downing 
Street  end;  the  finished  soldier  came  swinging  down  the 
Processional  Avenue  to  the  music  of  a  drum  and  fife  band, 
watched  a  little  wistfully  by  a  knot  of  men  in  service  caps, 
blue  jackets,  loose  red  ties  and  grey  trousers,  sometimes 
pinned  emptily  at  ankle,  knee  or  hip.  Standing  on  the  kerb, 
a  girl  of  twenty  in  deep  mourning  completed  scene  and  se- 
quence. 

I  was  still  gaping  like  a  yokel,  when  I  heard  my  name 
called  and  found  my  hand  wrung  by  an  officer  in  unfamiliar 
naval  uniform;  and,  though  we  had  sat  and  voted  side  by 
side  during  his  short  term  in  the  House,  though  I  had  shot 
with  him  a  dozen  times  at  his  place  in  Ireland,  I  had  to 
look  twice  before  I  recognised  him  as  George  Oakleigh. 
We  stood  shaking  hands,  laughing,  talking  both  at  once 
and  shaking  hands  again  until  he  suggested  that  I  should 
come  into  his  room  at  the  Admiralty  for  a  cigarette  and  a 
talk.  George,  whom  I  had  known  as  a  dilettante  journalist 
and  political  wire-puller,  explained  parenthetically  that  he 
had  for  a  year  been  one  of  innumerable  auxiliary  civil 
servants ;  I  did  not  need  to  be  told  that  he  was  tired,  over- 
worked and  vaguely,  sullenly  bitter. 

"Fancy  people  going  out  and  trying  to  slaughter  one 
another  on  a  day  like  this!"  he  cried,  looking  with  pink- 
lidded  eyes  at  the  sparse  trees  and  scanty  shade  amid  the 
white  flood  of  sunshine. 

"Well,  you'd  go  out,  if  you  had  the  chance,"  I  said. 

"And  hate  it  like  Hell  all  the  time!"  he  murmured  re- 


AN  ARABIAN  NIGHT  19 

flectively,  as  he  mechanically  took  a  salute.  "I've  seen 
enough  people  in  the  casualty  lists  to  realise  that  war  is  a 
dangerous  occupation,  Stornaway ;  and  I've  met  enough  fel- 
lows home  on  leave.  .  .  .  You  know  Jim  Loring's  gone, 
by  the  way?"  His  teeth  grated  together.  "This — this  is 
the  very  thing  that  my  uncle  Bertrand  and  I  spent  half-a- 
dozen  years  trying  to  avert !  Well,  I  must  be  getting  back 
to  work.  If  this  war's  done  nothing  else,  at  least  it's  cured 
me  of  the  conventional,  twelve-to-three-with-two-hours-orr'- 
for-luncheon  view  of  Government  offices.  With  me  it's 
nine-thirty  to  eight,  six  days'  holiday  in  twelve  months  and 
about  one  week-end  in  three." 

As  I  would  not  come  into  his  office  and  waste  his  time 
there,  we  wasted  it  for  a  few  moments  more  by  the  Cook 
monument.  George  tried  to  give  me  my  bearings,  inter- 
rupting himself  to  ask  jerkily,  "I  suppose  you've  heard  that 
Jack  Summertown's  dead?  He  was  knocked  out  at  the 
same  time  as  your  nephew.  And  Val  Arden  ?  .  .  . " 

I  had  an  additional  tragedy  in  which  Oakleigh  did  not 
share,  for  we  were  almost  within  sight  of  the  house  which 
poor  Deryk  Lancing  had  so  proudly  adorned:  on  such  an- 
other day  he  had  taken  me  over  it,  room  by  room;  I  had 
heard  that  he  died  on  the  very  evening  that  war  was  de- 
clared, yet  I  suppose  he  only  anticipated  what  would  have 
come  to  anyone  of  his  age  in  six  months'  time. 

"I  suppose  you  can't  imagine  what  all  this  looks  like  to 
a  man  who's  seeing  it  for  the  first  time,"  I  said.  "All  this 
drilling  and  training.  How  many  of  these  fellows  will 
come  back,  d'you  suppose?  And  what  are  we  going  to  get 
in  return?" 

He  smiled  wistfully. 

"A  lasting  peace,  I  hope.  It  can  never  happen  again,  you 
know." 

"I  never  thought  it  could  happen  this  time,"  I  said. 

"Well,  this  is  going  to  prove  that  war  is  a  failure.  Per- 
haps we  needed  the  proof.  .  .  .  You'll  find  that  after  the 
war  people  will  begin  to  do  what  we — you  and  Bertrand 
and  I  and  a  thousand  more — tried  to  make  them  do  before 


20  SONIA  MARRIED 

— remove  the  incentive  to  war  and  the  means  of  making 
war.  There  must  be  a  general  disarmament,  the  military 
machine  must  be  broken.  You'll  find  that  Germany  will 
be  a  confederated  republic  within  twelve  months — we  can 
never  make  peace  while  there's  a  Hohenzollern  at  large. 
You  know,  Stornaway,  this  war's  given  us  the  opportunity 
of  healing  the  sore  places  of  Europe,  and  there's  only  one 
way  to  do  it ;  when  the  peace  conference  begins  to  sit,  it  has 
got  to  divide  the  world  according  to  nationalities.  Belgium 
and  France  will  have  to  be  cleaned  up  first  of  all,  and  after 
that  we  must  let  the  world  go  as  it  wants  to  go.  Alsace- 
Lorraine  will  return  to  France;  you'll  find  north  and  south 
Germany  separating;  Poland  must  be  reconstituted;  Italy 
will  get  back  the  Trentino  and  Trieste,  though,  of  course, 
that  leaves  Austria  without  a  port.  .  .  .  But  you'll  find 
Austria-Hungary  splitting  into  a  thousand  pieces  as  soon  as 
you  apply  the  principle  of  nationality.  I'm  not  sure  about 
Constantinople,  but  I'm  inclined  to  give  it  to  Russia.  .  .  . 
It's  worth  some  sacrifice  to  clean  up  the  international 
anomalies  of  the  world  and  to  make  an  end  of  war." 

"It's  going  to  be  a  big  business,  George,  and  a  long  busi- 
ness," was  all  that  I  would  say. 

"We're  in  sight  of  doing  it/'  he  asserted.  "The  moment 
we  get  within  range  of  Constantinople,  Turkey  goes  out 
of  the  war;  she's  on  her  last  legs  now.  Then  with  Rus- 
sia bursting  in  on  the  southeast  and  Italy  pressing  up  from 
the  south,  Austria  will  be  the  next  to  go.  People  who 
know  tell  me  she's  on  the  verge  of  starvation.  Then  next 
spring  we  shall  be  bringing  off  a  big  offensive  on  the  west. 
We're  so  frightfully  handicapped  now  by  lack  of  shells." 
He  paused  and  looked  at  his  watch.  "By  Jove,  I  must  fly !" 
he  exclaimed.  "When  shall  I  see  you  again?  I'm  dining 
with  the  Maurice  Maitlands  to-night  and  I  happen  to  know 
that  the  Manistys  are  going  to  be  there.  Why  don't  you 
invite  yourself?  You're  a  lion,  you  know;  and  Connie 
Maitland  will  never  forgive  you,  if  anyone  else  catches  hold 
of  you  first." 

Leaving  him  to  hurry  into  the  Admiralty,  I  went  slowly 


AN  ARABIAN  NIGHT  21 

on  foot  to  Pont  Street.  England  was  an  armed  camp  and 
munition  factory,  London  a  gigantic  General  Headquar- 
ters. And  George,  with  his  rimless  eye-glasses  enthusi- 
astically askew  and  a  normally  pale  face  ecstatically 
flushed,  was  throwing  corps  here  and  divisions  there,  divid- 
ing the  map  of  the  world  by  the  test  of  nationality.  .  .  . 
I  felt  giddy. 

There  was  no  one  at  home,  when  I  reached  Pont  Street, 
and  I  explored  the  havoc  of  war  as  it  had  invaded  the 
house  of  a  man  to  whom  personal  comfort  means  much. 
My  butler,  footman  and  chauffeur  had  enlisted,  my  car 
was  wearing  itself  out  in  the  service  of  an  elderly  general ; 
the  ground-floor  gave  office-room  to  a  railway  canteen 
organisation  administered  by  my  niece,  and  the  rest  of  the 
house,  when  not  allocated  to  herself  or  her  husband,  pro- 
vided temporary  accommodation  for  derelict  officers  and 
nurses.  Never  have  I  felt  less  wanted. 

"But,  darling  uncle,  there's  so  little  that  we  can  do!" 
Yolande  exclaimed,  trying  to  combine  apology  and  self- 
defence.  "I  feel  that  if  we  don't  pinch  and  scrape  and 
slave.  .  .  .  And  everyone's  in  the  same  boat .  .  .  .  I  bought 
one  black  frock  when  Archie  was  killed,  and  I'm  not  going 
to  buy  another  stitch  till  the  war's  over.  I  don't  dine  out 
once  a  month ;  and  then  I  don't  usually  have  time  to  dress." 

She  was  looking  a  little  thin  and  white- faced;  for  some 
reason  the  auburn  hair  which  I  loved  had  been  cropped 
short,  but  she  was  undaunted  and  self-reliant,  one  of  a 
hundred  thousand  women  to  whom  the  war  was  bringing 
that  opportunity  for  service  for  which  they  had  so  long 
pined. 

The  emergence  of  my  nephew  Felix  from  a  War  Office 
car  completed  the  sense  of  revolution  and  unreality.  That 
least  military  of  archaeologists  was  now  arrayed  in  a  staff 
captain's  uniform,  which  accorded  ill  with  his  glasses  and 
bald  head,  for  duty  behind  a  string  of  letters  and  a  tele- 
phone extension  at  the  War  Office. 

"You'll  get  used  to  it  in  time,"  Yolande  laughed,  as  we 
set  out  on  foot  for  Eaton  Place. 


22  SONIA  MARRIED 

My  sense  of  not  being  wanted  certainly  evaporated  in 
the  warmth  of  Lady  Maitland's  greeting.  One  of  her  sons 
was  home  on  leave  from  the  Front,  and  the  familiar,  red- 
lacquer  drawing-room  was  filling  with  a  party  of  twenty- 
four,  each  of  whom  was  acclaimed  at  a  distance,  introduced, 
epitomised  and  enlisted  for  charity  or  intrigue  before  he 
had  fairly  crossed  the  threshold. 

"Yolande !  My  dear,  I  got  your  note  and  I've  put  off  the 
committee  till  Friday,"  she  cried,  when  our  turn  came  and 
my  niece  surrendered  to  a  resonant  kiss  on  either  cheek. 
"And  dear  Captain  Manisty — there  was  something  I  wanted 
to  see  you  about.  .  .  .  It'll  come  back  to  me.  And  Mr. 
Stornaway!"  She  surveyed  me  for  a  moment  with  her 
handsome  square  head  on  one  side,  then  turned  to  a  little 
group  behind  her.  "My  dears,  we  all  thought  he  was  dead ! 
Mr.  Stornaway,  I  want  you  all  to  myself,  you're  going  to 
tell  me  all  about  your  terrible  hardships  and,  before  you're 
a  day  older,  you're  going  on  my  Prisoners  of  War  Relief 
Committee."  She  turned  again  to  explain  me  to  the  room. 
"This  is  Mr.  Stornaway  who's  been  interned  in  Austria 
all  this  time.  He's  going  to  tell  us  all  about  it.  ...  Mr. 
Stornaway,  it's  a  scandal,  we  can't  get  the  Government  to 
act.  Now  here's  Mr.  Deganway — you  know  him? — he's  in 
the  Foreign  Office  and  he  tells  me  that  the  question  of  the 
prisoners " 

She  broke  off  to  welcome  two  new  arrivals  with  a  sur- 
prised cry  of  "Lord  Pentyre!  And  my  dear  Sir  Harry 
Mordaunt !"  as  though  she  had  not  invited  them.  I  shook 
hands  with  Maitland  and  was  trying  to  see  whom  else  I 
knew,  when  she  returned  and  remorselessly  introduced  me 
to  Vincent  Grayle,  with  whom  I  have  sat  in  the  House  for  a 
dozen  years.  He  was  leaning  on  a  stick,  and  I  learned  in 
a  galloping  exchange  of  biography  that  he  had  had  one 
knee  shattered  in  the  Antwerp  expedition  and  was  now  at 
the  War  Office,  "cleaning  up  the  mess  made  by  the  pro- 
fessional soldiers." 

"But  what  were  you  doing  out  there  at  all?"  I  asked, 
clinging  to  him  for  a  moment  before  Lady  Maitland  could 


AN  ARABIAN  NIGHT  23 

present  me  to  anyone  else.  We  had  been  contemporaries, 
if  not  friends,  at  Eton  and  Trinity,  which  meant  that  he 
was  past  fifty. 

"Much  too  good  a  war  to  miss!"  he  answered  with  a 
laugh,  hobbling  away  to  be  introduced  to  a  young  bride  in 
half-mourning  who  had  already  collected  two  young  Mait- 
lands,  Pentyre,  Deganway  and  George  Oakleigh. 

"I  expect  you  find  everything  a  bit  changed,"  said  Mait- 
land  earnestly,  glancing  at  his  own  uniform  and  speaking  as 
though  the  war  were  a  secret  in  which  he  was  doubtfully 
initiating  me. 

"Grayle's  much  the  same,"  I  answered,  looking  enviously 
after  the  viking  figure  with  the  blue  eyes,  pink  and  white 
cheeks  and  corn-coloured  hair. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  as  my  hostess  mentally 
called  the  roll  and  I  strolled  away  before  her  husband  was 
ready  with  another  platitude. 

"Eleanor  Ross  is  always  late!"  she  complained.  "Well, 
you  haven't  altered  much,  Mr.  Stornaway." 

Nor  had  she,  I  answered.  The  war  seemed  only  to 
have  turned  her  tireless  energy  into  new  channels.  Where- 
as she  had  once  called  for  the  heads  of  Nationalists,  strike 
leaders  and,  indeed,  anyone  with  whom  she  chanced  to  be 
in  temporary  disagreement,  she  would  now,  I  gathered,  be 
content  with  the  public  execution  of  the  Prime  Minister, 
Mr.  Ramsay  Macdonald  and  Sir  Ian  Hamilton.  She  seemed 
the  motive  power  of  as  many  committees  as  ever;  her 
house  was  the  meeting-place  of  as  many  incongruities  as 
before,  and  she  was  prepared  to  yoke  the  meanest  of 
us  to  one  or  other  of  her  charities. 

"We  must  have  a  talk  about  the  Prisoners,"  she  said, 
with  one  eye  on  the  door.  "The  Government  will  do 
nothing,  but  what  do  you  expect?" 

Lowering  her  voice,  she  confided  that  three  Ministers,  of 
whom  I  knew  one  to  be  a  bachelor,  were  married  to  Ger- 
man wives,  while  a  fourth  was  discovered  to  have  arms 
stacked  in  his  cellar  and  a  wireless  installation  on  his  roof. 
She  told  me,  further,  that  we  had  had  enough  of  these 


24  SONIA  MARRIED 

lawyer-politicians,  that  the  country  needed  a  Man,  be- 
cause the  young  shirkers  that  you  met  in  the  street  were 
stealing  the  work  of  those  who  had  patriotically  enlisted; 
the  Press,  she  went  on  to  say,  was  a  public  danger  (only 
exceeded  in  imbecile  virus  by  the  Press  Bureau)  and  it 
was  high  time  that  in  the  matter  of  war  we  sat  at  the  feet 
of  Germany.  She  barely  had  time  to  weaken  her  last  ef- 
fect by  declaring  the  German  military  machine,  for  all  its 
forty  years'  perfection,  to  be  the  greatest  imposture  in  his- 
tory, before  the  Duchess  of  Ross  was  announced. 

"Odious  painted  creature.  And  always  late !"  Lady  Mait- 
land  whispered  to  me,  as  she  hurried  forward  with  both 
hands  outstretched. 

"You  look  giddy/'  Yolande  murmured. 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  England  after  a  year  of 
war?"  Eleanor  Ross  cried  over  her  shoulder,  as  we  went 
down  to  dinner. 


If  Lady  Maitland  had  invited  a  full  account  of  my  in- 
ternment and  had  then  scampered  away  without  waiting 
to  hear  it,  I  was  not  let  off  so  easily  by  either  of  my 
neighbours  at  dinner.  For  the  first  three  courses  I  told 
my  tale  to  the  Duchess  of  Ross,  who  spent  the  second  three 
handing  it  on  to  the  right,  while  I  turned  like  an  autom- 
aton and  repeated  my  recitation  to  Lady  Pentyre.  As  I 
might  have  foreseen,  knowing  their  craving  to  be  ahead  of 
the  world  with  any  new  thing,  I  was  instantly  committed 
to  lunching  with  both  (because  each  knew  so  many  people 
who  would  be  simply  dying  to  meet  me  and  hear  all  about 
it)  ;  and,  if  I  bore  my  cross  with  resignation,  it  was  be- 
cause I  knew  that  I  was  relieving  someone  else  (he  proved 
to  be  a  submarine  commander  who  had  recently  been 
awarded  the  Victoria  Cross) — and  that  I  should  be  re- 
lieved in  my  turn  when  a  greater  novelty  presented  itself — 
(after  three  days  an  American  Lusitania  survivor  came 
to  my  rescue). 

I  was  beginning  to  get  used  to  the  noise  and  strangeness 


AN  ARABIAN  NIGHT  25 

and  to  recover  from  my  first  bewilderment,  when  Lady 
Maitland  rustled  to  her  feet,  and  I  was  left  at  the  mercy 
of  a  political  argument  carried  on  between  my  host  and 
Grayle  across  my  body.  So  far  as  I  remembered,  it  con- 
cerned the  likelihood  of  compulsory  service,  and  I  was 
only  interested  to  find  Grayle,  the  most  lawless  man  of  my 
acquaintance,  pleading  for  more  discipline,  while  a  high- 
and-dry  Tory  like  Maitland  defended  Ministers  whom  he 
had  styled  thieves  and  common  sharpers  at  the  time  of  the 
1909  Budget  and  the  Marconi  enquiry.  I  had  almost  for- 
gotten my  poor  little  host's  genius  for  picking  up  the 
hastier  opinions  and  less  profound  catchwords  of  the  un- 
informed. George  caught  my  eye  and  winked,  as  Mait- 
land thumped  the  table  impressively,  tugged  at  his  mous- 
tache and  talked — with  a  slightly  shocked  intonation — of 
"the  brain  and  sinew  of  the  Government,  my  dear  Grayle." 
Young  Pentyre,  as  surprise  relaxed  into  boredom,  moved 
next  to  me  and  began  a  rival  conversation. 

"Who's  the  patriotic  gentleman?"  he  whispered.  "And 
why's  he  so  excited  about  the  jolly  old  Government?" 

"He's  got  a  bee  in  his  bonnet,"  George  explained,  "be- 
cause he  fancies  he  brought  down  the  old  Liberal  lot  and 
can't  make  out  why  he's  not  been  given  a  job  in  the  Coali- 
tion." 

"But  who  is  he?"  Pentyre  persisted. 

As  I  had  known  Grayle  longer  than  anyone  present,  I 
took  it  upon  myself  to  answer. 

We  had  first  met  nearly  forty  years  ago  as  boys  at 
Eton,  soon  drawing  together  in  a  common  recognition, 
keenly  felt  and  resented,  that  we  were  poorer  than  our 
fellows.  My  father  had  no  business  to  send  me  there  at 
all,  but  every  male  Stornaway  always  had  gone  to  Eton, 
whether  he  could  afford  it  or  not.  Grayle,  the  only  son 
of  a  hard-drinking  Gloucestershire  squire,  who  used  to  beat 
him  unmercifully,  was  sent  to  school  when  he  grew  strong 
enough  to  resist  parental  castigation,  with  an  idea,  I  sup- 
pose, that  others  by  force  of  numbers  would  be  able  to 
continue  the  beatings.  We  worked  our  way  up  the 


26  SONIA  MARRIED 

school  together,  until  Grayle  was  withdrawn  in  conse- 
quence of  some  trouble  with  a  tradesman's  daughter  in 
Slough,  and  met  again  at  Trinity,  when  the  scandal  was 
half  forgotten.  There  I  remained  four  years  and  Grayle 
four  weeks.  If  I  ever  heard  the  full  story  of  his  subse- 
quent, final,  cataclysmic  quarrel  with  his  father  (they  were 
separated,  I  know,  by  the  stud-groom  and  a  couple  of 
strappers),  I  have  forgotten  the  details;  the  result  of  the 
quarrel  was  that  Vincent  disappeared,  and  the  next  time 
that  I  saw  him  was  several  years  later  in  New  York.  I 
had  gone  up  there  from  Washington  and  ran  unexpectedly 
into  Grayle's  arms  on  Fifth  Avenue;  he  was  accompanied 
by  another  Trinity  man  of  my  year — Guy  Bannerman,  a 
brilliant,  shiftless  Rabelaisian,  whom  Grayle  with  his 
startling  streak  of  prodigal  generosity  had  taken  in  hand 
and  was  prepared  (as  he  consistently  proved)  to  keep 
afloat.  I  remember  how  one  of  the  loudest  voices  in  the 
world  suddenly  silenced  the  drone  of  traffic  by  thunder- 
ing, 

"It's  the  great  anomaly  of  modern  civilisation.  What 
are  you  going  to  do  with  them?  Theoretically  they're  your 
equal  fellow-citizens,  but  they  don't  vote,  they  daren't  enter 
a  white  man's  hotel.  I  can't  remember  for  the  moment 
whether  they're  actually  increasing  in  numbers " 

Then  I  knew,  even  without  sight  of  the  square-faced, 
bull-necked  man  with  the  familiar  grey  eyes,  dusty  hair 
and  capacious  loose-lipped  mouth,  that  Guy  Bannerman  had 
discovered  America  and  was  concerned  to  solve  the  negro 
problem.  He  was  on  his  way  to  Klondike,  where  he  heard 
that  gold  had  been  found,  and  he  swore  me  impressively 
to  secrecy. 

"Half  New  York  knows  about  it  already,"  I  had  to  warn 
him. 

"How  did  they  hear?"  he  roared. 

"You've  just  told  them." 

The  three  of  us  lunched  together,  and  I  found  that 
Grayle,  too,  was  bound  for  the  gold-fields.  Their  methods 
of  approach  were  notably  different,  for,  while  Guy  Banner- 


AN  ARABIAN  NIGHT  27 

man  informed  New  York  City  that  any  fool  could  dig  for 
gold  and  I  retorted  that  every  fool  would,  Grayle  was  com- 
piling an  exhaustive  list  of  everything  that  a  gold-digger 
could  need  or  be  drugged  into  thinking  he  needed. 

"One  wants  a  pick  and  shovel,  I  suppose,"  Guy  ven- 
tured, "and — and  a  pannikin."  His  conception  of  gold- 
digging  impressed  me  as  being  literary. 

"And  food,  drink,  lights,  clothes,  covering,  cooking-gear, 

medicine "  Grayle  struck  in  ferociously.  "No,  we're 

not  going  to  discover  the  North  West  Passage,  but  we're 
going  to  make  these  swine  squeal — and  the  more  squeals  we 
knock  out  of  them  the  better  I  shall  be  pleased.  Tools, 
blankets — or  rather,  sleeping-bags.  Tents.  Tobacco. 
Mustn't  forget  tobacco.  Bags  for  the  gold.  I  suppose,  if 
you've  had  a  good  day,  you  sleep  with  a  revolver  under 
your  pillow ;  and  stand  drinks  all  round,  which  involves  the 
worst  obtainable  Californian  gooseberry.  I'm  going  to  sup- 
ply the  outfit,  and  they're  going  to  dig  the  gold.  Exploit, 
or  be  exploited.  Care  to  come  in  with  us,  Stornaway? 
Anything  you  like  to  put  up,  you  know.  .  .  ." 

He  could  not  persuade  me  to  come  and  help  him  exploit, 
nor  could  he  save  Bannerman  from  being  exploited,  but 
the  enterprise  as  he  saw  and  planned  it  was  a  giant  suc- 
cess even  in  the  history  of  gold-rushes.  I  believe  Aylmer 
Lancing  supplied  the  capital;  Grayle  reached  Klondike  a 
week  after  the  rush  had  begun  and  only  came  east  when 
it  was  starkly  not  worth  his  while  to  be  left  with  a  month's 
stores  on  his  hands;  then  the  insalubrious  shanty  known 
as  "Grayle's  Hotel"  was  sold  by  private  treaty,  the  stock- 
in-trade  was  put  up  to  auction  on  a  rising  market  and  he 
returned  to  square  his  accounts  with  Lancing  in  New  York. 

However  much  money  he  made,  I  dare  swear  that  he 
returned  with  even  more  experience.  For  many  months 
many  thousands  of  the  world's  choicest  blackguards  had 
slept  between  his  blankets,  worked  with  his  tools,  eaten 
his  food  and  sheltered  beneath  his  roofs.  Raving  with  his 
Californian  gooseberry  champagne,  a  Pittsburg  smelter  had 
emptied  one  of  his  six-shooters  into  the  scattering  head  of 


28  SONIA  MARRIED 

his  partner;  Grayle  sold  the  coffin  and  subsequently  a  coil 
of  rope.  He  supplied  jewellery  and  dresses  to  the  women 
whom  he  had  induced  to  follow  the  camp ;  he  peddled  con- 
certinas to  the  musically-minded.  Twice  the  store  was 
looted,  after  a  good  day  and  a  full  dinner,  which  the  loot- 
ing party  instinctively  felt  to  have  been  insufficiently  full. 
The  first  time  he  convened  a  public  meeting  and  asked  if 
it  was  in  the  common  interest  to  make  him  close  down ;  the 
second  time  he  began  to  pack  and  only  unpacked  when  the 
leader  had  been  unobtrusively  lynched.  As  a  study  in  con- 
trasts, Guy  Bannerman  spent  three  months  carrying  the 
gold  south  and  bringing  back  stores;  then  he  tired  of  the 
only  work  for  which  he  was  fit,  pocketed  his  share  of  the 
profits  and  started  digging.  The  profits  were  coaxed  out 
of  him  by  a  woman  whom  he  set  himself  to  reclaim — with- 
out noticeable  success — and,  whereas  the  gold  began  to 
peter  out  within  a  month  of  Grayle's  departure,  Bannerman 
stayed  on  until  his  last  dollar  had  passed  to  the  new  pro- 
prietor of  "Grayle's  Hotel." 

I  met  both  adventurers  in  Venezuela,  which  they  had  to 
leave  before  their  scheduled  time,  and  again  at  Colon.  Then 
I  returned  to  England  and  got  myself  elected  to  the  House 
of  Commons  for  the  Southdown  division  of  Sussex;  I  did 
not  see  Grayle  again  until  the  1900  election  brought  him 
into  the  House,  with  Guy  Bannerman  faithfully  running 
the  election  and  later  acting  as  secretary,  shadow,  press- 
cutting  agency,  collector  of  statistics,  fact-finder  and  gen- 
eral parliamentary  devil.  Then  he  went  out  to  South 
Africa  for  the  second  half  of  the  war. 

Having  seen  the  man  undisguised  in  two  continents,  I 
have  always  been  a  little  surprised  to  find  how  little  he 
was  known  here;  he  can  be  a  very  entertaining  ruffian, 
causing  the  usually  censorious  to  apologise  and  say  "a 
blackguard,  but  at  least  he's  not  a  hypocrite,  you  know;" 
on  the  other  hand,  through  the  rose-tinted  spectacles  of 
middle-age  I  seem  to  look  back  on  a  House  of  Commons 
which  would  not  have  tolerated  him ;  perhaps  we  are  more 
indulgent  nowadays,  perhaps  no  one  took  the  trouble  to 


AN  ARABIAN  NIGHT  29 

compile  a  dossier,  perhaps  each  man  felt  that  his  own  turn 
might  come  next. 

Be  that  as  it  may,  Grayle  succeeded  in  entering  a  House 
that  neither  liked  nor  trusted  him.  Fishing  in  troubled 
waters  for  twelve  years,  he  picked  up  a  knowledge  of  his 
colleagues,  even  if  he  landed  no  fish;  speculation  in  coun- 
tries too  enterprising  to  be  critical  had  made  him  rich 
enough  to  pay  other  people's  debts  and  occasionally  to 
compensate  lost  honour  on  behalf  of  some  rising  politician 
with  a  reputation  to  preserve,  but  he  never  came  into  the 
open  until  the  Marconi  enquiry,  when  I  discovered  by  the 
savagery  of  his  attacks  on  the  Government  that  he  was 
now  a  newspaper  proprietor.  The  war  gave  him  his  oppor- 
tunity, and,  according  to  the  far  from  impartial  statement 
of  Bertrand  Oakleigh,  who  liked  an  actionable  story  for 
its  own  sake,  Grayle  was  one  of  the  leaders  in  organising 
the  Unionist  attack  on  the  Liberal  Government  in  1915. 

All  this  and  more  I  contrived  to  convey  to  Pentyre  be- 
fore Grayle  had  finished  his  cigar  and  signified  his  willing- 
ness to  come  upstairs. 

We  were  hardly  inside  the  drawing-room  before  he  had 
limped  briskly  to  the  sofa  where  the  young  bride  who  had 
been  his  neighbour  at  dinner  was  seated ;  she  smiled  easily, 
ungratified  but  obviously  conscious  of  his  admiration,  and 
in  a  moment  they  were  splashing  to  the  waist  in  vivacious 
badinage.  I  sought  out  my  niece  and  tried  to  secure  ten 
minutes'  quiet  discussion  of  my  own  affairs. 

In  one  of  the  first  letters  to  reach  me  in  my  internment 
camp  Yolande  cautiously  prepared  me  for  bad  news;  on 
the  next  page  she  announced  young  Deryk  Lancing's  death ; 
a  week  later  I  heard — in  my  loose-box  and  amid  a  smell  of 
straw  and  whitewash — that  the  whole  estate  of  some 
twenty  odd  millions  had  passed  to  me.  I  had  known  old 
Sir  Aylmer  Lancing,  the  boy's  father,  ever  since  I  was 
transferred  from  Vienna  to  Washington,  when  he  was  in 
the  fulness  of  his  powers  and  Deryk  was  unborn.  Indeed, 
he  had  hitched  me  out  of  the  Diplomatic  and  given  me  a 
start  with  one  of  his  own  firms  of  contractors  in  South 


30  SONIA  MARRIED 

America,  and  there  I  had  made  enough  money  to  retire  to 
affluence  when  my  health  broke  down  in  Panama.  I  had 
seen  him,  too,  regularly  and  intimately  for  fifteen  years 
after  his  stroke;  indeed,  I  had  induced  my  brother  to  sell 
him  Ripley  Court  and  I  spent  so  much  of  my  time  there 
that  it  was  sometimes  hard  to  believe  that  the  great,  gaunt 
house  had  ever  changed  hands.  Deryk  I  had  known  since 
he  was  a  boy  of  eight  or  nine,  brilliant  and  precocious, 
neurotic,  impatient  and  inconsiderate,  but  winning  and  lov- 
able with  it  all  and  filled  with  a  blaze  of  promise.  He  had 
succeeded  to  the  title  and  estate  less  than  twelve  months 
before  he  was  killed;  he  had  just  become  engaged  rather 
romantically  to  a  girl  with  whom  he  had  long  been  in  love ; 
and  it  was  on  the  day  when  he  had  been  shewing  her  the 
house  which  I  persuaded  him  to  buy  and  which  was  wait- 
ing for  them  both  that  he  had  fallen  from  the  roof  and 
been  picked  up  dead  and  hideously  broken.  .  .  . 

I  looked  round  the  room,  through  the  rich  gleam  of  Lady 
Maitland's  red  lacquer,  at  Grayle,  sitting  with  one  leg  per- 
manently stiff  in  front  of  him,  Charles  Maitland,  already 
twice  wounded,  Pentyre  in  his  Guards  uniform,  \vaiting 
to  go  out,  and  my  eyes  came  to  rest  on  Yolande's  black 
dress. 

"You  would  have  thought  the  war  had  done  enough  dam- 
age without  any  extras  of  that  kind,"  I  said. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  all  the  money?"  she 
asked  wonderingly. 

"I  want  time  to  think,  Yolande,"  I  said.  "I  feel  a  little 
bit  dazed.  It's  so  much  the  same — and  yet  so  different.  I 
know  this  room  so  well,  Lady  Maitland's  the  same  fat, 
voluble,  outrageous,  delightful  creature  that  she  always 
was, — and  yet  I  seemed  to  have  dipped  into  another 
world.  ..." 

We  were  still  talking  of  ourselves  and  the  family  when 
a  maid  entered  to  say  that  a  Mr.  Jellaby  wished  to  speak 
to  Colonel  Grayle  on  the  telephone.  I  smiled  in  easy 
triumph  as  Grayle  scrambled  to  his  feet,  for  I  have  so  often 
found  Mr.  Jellaby  wishing  to  speak  to  me  on  the  telephone, 


AN  ARABIAN  NIGHT  31 

and  poor  Jellaby  with  tears  in  his  voice  has  begged  me  to 
help  keep  a  house  or  stand  in  readiness  for  a  division  or 
relieve  guard  after  an  all-night  sitting. 

"If  there's  a  division,  I  shall  take  you,"  Grayle  threat- 
ened in  retaliation  for  my  smile,  as  he  leaned  down  for  his 
stick.  "One  of  these  Labour  swine  making  trouble,  I  ex- 
pect. We've  all  got  to  back  the  Government  as  long  as  it 
is  the  Government." 

It  was  a  good  guess,  for  he  returned  a  moment  later 
and  dragged  me  to  my  feet  with  the  announcement  that 
Grimthorpe,  the  A.S.E.  man,  was  threatening  to  divide  the 
House  unless  the  Prime  Minister  gave  an  assurance  that 
the  National  Registration  Bill  would  never  be  made  the 
basis  of  a  system  of  conscription. 

"Infernal  nuisance,  but  we  shall  have  to  go,"  he  said. 
"You've  got  to  start  your  duties  some  time,  Stornaway, 
and  you  may  as  well  keep  me  company  and  start  them  to- 
night. Only  a  formality,  you  know.  Half  the  Cabinet's 
sworn  not  to  graft  conscription  on  to  the  Bill,  and  the 
other  half's  sworn  it  will.  Beauty  of  coalition  govern- 
ment !" 

More  from  a  desire  to  see  what  the  House  looked  like 
than  from  any  wish  to  support  Grayle,  I  allowed  myself 
to  be  taken  away.  As  I  shook  hands  with  Lady  Maitland, 
he  stumped  back  to  his  sofa  and  roundly  told  the  young 
bride  that  he  proposed  to  come  and  call  on  her. 

"Haven't  half  finished  our  conversation,"  he  said  in  a 
tone  of  authority,  "so  if  you'll  tell  me  your  address " 

I  chose  to  think  that  her  manner  hardened,  as  though  she 
felt  that  Grayle  was  taking  her  for  granted  too  much. 

"I'm  hardly  ever  at  home,"  she  answered.  "My  Belgian 
refugee  work " 

"Free  in  the  evenings,"  he  interrupted  jerkily.  "My  only 
time  for  calling." 

She  hesitated  and,  as  I  thought,  sank  her  voice  slightly, 
putting  herself  on  the  defensive. 

"You'd  only  be  bored,  you  know,"  she  warned  him.    "It 


32  SONIA  MARRIED 

isn't  an  ordinary  house,  and  you  won't  meet  ordinary 
people." 

"Coming  to  see  you,91  Grayle  answered. 

"You  clearly  aren't  wanted,  Grayle,"  I  said,  taking  him 
by  the  arm.  "If  you  insist  on  dragging  me  to  the  House, 
let's  start  at  once." 

He  shook  free  of  my  hand  and  turned  to  her,  as  though 
he  were  delivering  an  ultimatum. 

"You  don't  want  me  to  come?"  he  demanded. 

"You  won't  be  amused,"  she  answered,  this  time  in  un- 
mistakable distress. 

"Where  do  you  live?"  he  asked  relentlessly. 

"In  Westminster."  I  was  rather  shocked  by  the  way 
in  which  she  allowed  him  to  bully  her.  "A  house  called 
'The  Sanctuary/  on  the  Embankment,  just  by  the  Tate 
Gallery." 

He  repeated  the  name  as  we  walked  downstairs  and 
whistled  unsuccessfully  for  a  taxi.  On  the  steps  I  told 
him  again  that  he  had  been  making  a  nuisance  of  himself, 
for  she  was  probably  living  in  some  modest  boarding- 
house.  Grayle  would  only  murmur  irrelevantly  that  she 
was  a  devilish  pretty  girl,  an  opinion  evidently  shared  by 
George  Oakleigh  and  the  Maitland  boys,  who  had  sur- 
rounded her  before  Grayle  was  out  of  the  room.  I  cannot 
remember  that  her  looks  left  any  impression  on  me  at  this 
meeting. 

"  'The  Sanctuary',"  he  murmured  for  the  third  time,  as 
we  set  off  on  foot  for  the  House.  "Didn't  happen  to  hear 
what  her  name  was,  did  you  ?  Never  bother  about  names 
myself." 

"It  would  be  inartistic,"  I  said. 

We  walked  through  Eaton  Square  in  silence  and  along 
Buckingham  Gate  and  Birdcage  Walk  to  Parliament  Square. 
As  we  aproached  the  Palmerston  monument,  Grayle  touched 
my  arm,  pointed  ahead  and  quickened  his  limping  pace ;  an 
open-air  meeting  of  two  soldiers,  nine  loafers  and  one 
woman  was  being  addressed  by  a  shabbily-garbed  young 
man  who  seemed  to  be  on  the  worst  possible  terms  with 


AN  ARABIAN  NIGHT  33 

his  audience;  Grayle,  who  has  the  nose  of  a  schoolboy  or 
a  terrier  for  any  kind  of  fight,  clearly  felt  that  this,  like  the 
war,  was  too  good  to  miss.  What  went  before,  I  have,  of 
course,  no  means  of  judging,  but  such  fragments  of  vituper- 
ation as  reached  me  suggested  the  wonder  why  a  man,  who 
cared  nothing  for  his  hearers,  troubled  to  harangue  an 
exasperated  group,  which  was  quite  unconvinced  by  his 
reasoning.  The  speaker  kept  his  temper;  his  hearers  had 
lost  theirs  from  the  outset,  I  should  imagine,  and  this  pos- 
sibly amused  him  and  justified  the  effort. 

"Go  aht  and  fight  yourself,"  cried  one  of  the  soldiers 
truculently,  "before  yer  snacks  at  the  men  that  'ave  been 
out  there." 

"I  should  not  der-ream  of  fighting,"  the  lecturer  an- 
swered with  practised  and  very  clear  enunciation. 

"Precious  sight  too  careful  of  yer  dirty  skin !" 

The  lecturer  laughed  with  maddening  calm. 

"I  value  my  life,"  he  conceded,  "but  I  happen  to  be 
brave  enough  to  value  my  soul  more.  I  do  not  choose  to  be 
the  deluded  instrument  of  Junkers  here  or  elsewhere,  and, 
had  anyone  thought  you  worth  educating,  you  would  not 
choose  it  either.  My  fine  fellow,  you  were  before  the  war 
— what?  A  coal-heaver?  But  you  had  no  quarrel  with 
the  coal-heavers  of  Germany,  until  your  Junkers  told  you 
to  fight ;  you  will  again  have  no  quarrel  when  your  Junkers 
tell  you  to  stop  fighting.  I  was  a  medical  student  once,  I 
had  no  quarrel  with  the  medical  students  of  other  nations, 
nor  can  I  make  a  quarrel  when  a  Junker  tells  me  to  hate, 
to  be  red  and  angry — if  you  could  see  how  red  and  angry 
you  look  now ! — to  stab  and  shoot  and  slash.  If  I  have  to 
kill,  let  me  kill  a  Junker,  who  cannot  maintain  the  peace 
of  the  world."  He  sank  his  voice  with  artistic  pretence  of 
talking  to  himself.  "But  I  was  educated,  I  have  thought,  I 
am  not  a  dog  to  be  whistled  to  heel  or  incited  to  fight 
other  dogs." 

In  the  pause  that  followed  Grayle  put  his  lips  to  my 
ear  and  whispered  behind  his  hand. 

"Get  those  two  Tommies  away,"  he  begged.    "Dust  this 


34  SONIA  MARRIED 

fellow's  jacket  for  him,  but  can't  do  it  in  uniform  with 
men  about." 

I  gripped  his  arm  firmly  and  tried  to  drag  him  away. 
The  war  seemed  to  have  brought  all  Grayle's  latent  ferocity 
to  the  surface. 

"Don't  be  a  fool!"  I  whispered. 

"Not  going  to  let  a  damned  German  agent  talk  sedition 
in  my  hearing!"  he  cried. 

Even  as  he  spoke,  the  decision  was  taken  out  of  our 
hands.  The  soldier,  rightly  or  wrongly  described  as  a  coal- 
heaver,  stepped  forward  and  called  upon  the  lecturer  to 
"take  that  back,  will  you?"  The  lecturer  smiled,  folded  his 
arms  and  said  nothing,  quietly  waiting  for  the  interruption 
to  subside. 

"Take  that  back !"  repeated  the  soldier,  with  a  new  note 
of  menace  in  his  voice,  and,  when  there  was  no  answer, 
dealt  a  swinging  open-handed  blow  to  the  lecturer's  face. 

His  victim  staggered,  recovered  his  balance  and  stood 
with  lips  tightly  compressed  and  a  print  of  angry  scarlet 
on  his  cheek.  One  of  the  women  had  screamed;  two  of 
the  loafers  cried,  after  deliberation,  "Serve  him  right!" 

"When  opposed  to  truth,"  the  lecturer  continued,  when 
he  had  satisfied  himself  that  no  second  blow  was  com- 
ing, "violence  is  as  ineffectual  in  the  street  as  on  the  bat- 
tlefield. You  do  not  stifle  truth  by  sending  a  man  to  Si- 
beria, as  I've  seen  men  sent,  though  you  may  remove  an 
undesirable  prefect  of  police,  as  I  have  seen  one  removed, 
sky-high  in  Kiev,  because — well,  the  truth  was  not  in  him. 
Nor  is  there  truth  in  you;  there  can  be  no  truth  in  dogs 
who  feed  on  bones  flung  from  the  table,  dogs  who  rise  up 
raw  from  their  beating  and  give  their  lives  to  protect  their 
masters." 

This  time  there  was  no  invitation  to  retract.  The  same 
soldier  again  stepped  quickly  forward,  threw  his  arm  across 
his  chest  and  flung  the  full  weight  of  his  body  into  a  sweep- 
ing backhander.  The  lecturer  was  lifted  off  his  feet  and 
carried  a  yard  back,  where  he  struck  the  railings  and  fell 
in  an  invertebrate  mass  with  one  leg  curled  under  him.  The 


AN  ARABIAN  NIGHT  35 

onlookers  craned  forward  uneasily,  glanced  at  one  another 
and  began  to  separate  in  silence,  the  more  quickly  when 
Grayle  limped  up  and  confronted  the  avenging  soldier. 

"Clear  out  of  this!"  he  ordered  abruptly. 

"  'E  insulted  the  uniform,  sir,"  came  the  husky  justifi- 
cation compounded  of  alcohol,  fear  and  regard  for  Grayle's 
red  band  and  tabs. 

"I  know  all  about  that.  Clear  out  and  take  your  friends 
with  you.  He's  not  dead,"  he  added  a  moment  later,  when 
we  were  alone,  contemptuously  exploring  the  body  with 
his  toe.  "I  don't  suppose  he's  even  badly  hurt.  I  propose 
to  leave  him  here  and  tell  one  of  the  Bobbies  at  the 
House " 

There  was  a  groan  as  the  toe  glided  on  to  an  injured  part. 
I  asked  the  man  where  he  was  hurt,  and  at  sound  of  my 
voice  he  opened  his  eyes,  looked  round  for  a  moment  and 
closed  them  again.  I  was  as  yet  far  from  used  to  the  dim 
light  from  the  shrouded  street-lamps  and  could  only  see 
that  he  looked  a  man  between  twenty  and  thirty,  shockingly 
thin  of  body,  with  fair  hair,  dark  blue  eyes  and  a  narrow 
face  with  high  cheek  bones.  His  air  and  costume  were 
generally  threadbare.  More  from  policy  than  compassion 
Grayle  relented  somewhat. 

"I'll  mount  guard,"  he  said.  "Get  hold  of  a  Bobby  and 
a  stretcher." 


To  be  involved,  however  innocently,  in  a  street  brawl 
is  considerably  more  characteristic  of  Vincent  Grayle  than 
of  myself.  I  think  that  he  should  have  discontinued  the 
habit  at  least  when  he  reached  the  age  of  fifty,  but  I  know 
well  that  he  only  regretted  his  late  arrival. 

"They  keep  a  stretcher  at  the  House,  don't  they?"  he 
asked,  as  he  bared  his  crop  of  yellow  hair  to  the  wind  and 
lit  a  cigarette  in  preparation  for  his  vigil  by  the  recumbent 
agitator.  "If  not,  telephone  Cannon  Row." 

I  was  starting  on  my  way  when  I  collided  with  a  young 
man  who  had  joined  us  unperceived.  He  was  in  evening 


36  SONIA  MARRIED 

dress  with  an  overcoat  across  his  arm  and  a  sombre-eyed 
Saint  Bernard  at  his  side. 

"Someone  hurt?"  he  enquired,  after  waving  away  my 
apologies.  "I  thought  I  heard  the  word  'stretcher/  " 

"It  was  only  a  street  row,"  Grayle  explained  callously. 
"This  fellow  thought  fit  to  address  an  anti-recruiting  meet- 
ing, and  his  points  weren't  very  well  taken." 

The  young  man  wrinkled  his  forehead,  laughed  and,  after 
a  moment's  thought,  slipped  his  arms  into  the  sleeves  of  his 
overcoat. 

"Didn't  Doctor  Johnson  say  that  every  man  had  the 
right  to  express  his  opinion  and  that  everyone  else  had  the 
right  to  knock  him  down  for  it?"  he  drawled.  Then 
abruptly,  "Are  you  Colonel  Grayle,  by  any  chance?" 

"I  am,"  Grayle  answered  with  a  look  of  surprise. 

"I  thought  I  recognised  your  voice.  I  collect  voices  and 
I  heard  you  last  week  when  the  National  Registration  Bill 
was  in  Committee.  Do  you  think  it's  possible  to  arrive  at 
a  taxi?  I  live  quite  near  here  and  I  can  take  the  patient 
home  for  treatment." 

"But  why  the  deuce  should  you  bother  about  him?" 
Grayle  asked. 

The  boy  smiled  to  himself  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"If  we  cast  him  off  to  a  hospital,  there'll  be  all  sorts  of 
silly  questions,"  he  explained.  "And  I'm  a  bit  of  an 
Ishmaelite  myself.  What's  the  extent  of  the  damage?" 

The  injured  man  opened  his  eyes  again  and  reduced  his 
huddled  limbs  to  some  sort  of  order,  not  without  occasional 
twinges  of  pain.  He  seemed  nothing  but  skin  and  loose 
bones  and  might  well  have  fainted  from  exhaustion  rather 
than  injury. 

"My  left  leg's  done  for,"  he  announced. 

The  stranger  nodded  sympathetically. 

"Can  anyone  see  a  taxi  ?"  he  asked.  "They've  simply  dis- 
appeared from  the  streets  of  London,  like  Sam  Weller's 
dead  donkeys  and  postboys.  Well,  you  men  help  him  up 
and  give  him  a  hoist  on  to  my  shoulders.  I'm  only  a  step 
from  here." 


AN  ARABIAN  NIGHT  37 

At  a  guess  the  sprawling  figure  was  some  inches  taller 
and  at  least  as  heavy  as  the  new-comer,  but  my  suggestion 
that  we  should  wait  for  a  taxi  or  send  for  a  stretcher  was 
disregarded. 

"Perhaps  I'm  stronger  than  I  look/'  he  told  me;  to  the 
injured  man  he  said,  "Clasp  your  hands  round  my  neck ;  I'll 
try  not  to  shake  you,  but  it  may  come  a  bit  painful.  And 
one  of  you  men  look  after  the  steering  so  that  I  don't 
tumble  off  the  kerb  or  get  run  over.  The  house  is  just  by 
the  Tate  Gallery — a  big  sort  of  barn  with  a  lamp  over  the 
door— it's  called  The  Sanctuary/  " 

Grayle  started  violently  and  looked  at  me,  but  I  had  ap- 
pointed myself  steersman  and  was  heading  for  Millbank 
in  the  wake  of  the  sombre-eyed  Saint  Bernard.  The  young 
man's  looks  belied  his  strength,  for  he  walked  fast  enough 
for  Grayle  to  have  difficulty  in  keeping  pace,  and,  as  he 
walked,  he  told  us  that  the  expected  division  was  a  false 
alarm  and  that  the  House  was  up.  I  hurried  along  by  his 
side,  feeling  more  and  more  that  the  whole  evening  had 
passed  in  a  dream  and  that  I  should  wake  up  to  find  my- 
self back  in  my  internment  camp.  The  noise  and  excite- 
ment had  tired  me  into  somnolence;  the  darkened  streets 
added  to  my  feeling  of  unreality.  The  dog  with  a  cane  and 
hat  in  his  jaws,  one  young  man  with  another  young  man 
sprawling  on  his  shoulders,  Grayle  panting  on  one  side  and 
myself  guiding  the  unconvincing  procession  on  the  other 
made  up  a  picture  whose  reality  I  myself  doubted  more 
than  once. 

And  the  house,  when  we  reached  it,  was  a  large  brick- 
and-timber  warehouse,  once  the  property  of  a  wharfinger, 
before  the  Embankment  was  built,  and  quite  unlike  any- 
thing that  I  had  expected, — though  in  keeping  with  every- 
thing that  night.  I  stood  waiting  for  instructions,  for  there 
was  a  modern  annexe,  with  a  second  floor.  I  learned  after- 
wards that  Whaley,  the  Pre-Raphaelite,  had  used  the  place 
as  a  studio. 

"It's  only  about  half  furnished  at  present,"  our  young 
friend  informed  us,  ''and  I  expect  you'll  find  it  very  un- 


38  SONIA  MARRIED 

tidy.  We've  not  been  married  a  month  yet.  The  house 
was  a  wedding-present." 

I  had  guessed  him  to  be  the  husband  of  the  young  bride 
whom  we  had  met  at  dinner  and  could  understand  why  his 
wife  was  unprepared  for  visitors. 

"We  won't  come  in,"  I  said,  as  we  stopped  under  a 
wrought-iron  lamp  by  a  heavy  oak  door  painted  in  white 
gothic  characters  with  the  name  of  the  house. 

"Oh,  you  must !"  he  cried.  "I  may  want  help.  You  just 
push  the  door — it  isn't  locked — and,  if  there's  no  light  on, 
you'll  find  the  switches  to  the  right.  Don't  turn  it  on, 
though,  till  the  door's  shut,  or  someone  will  run  me  in  for 
signalling  to  German  aircraft." 

Grayle  at  least  seemed  to  need  no  second  invitation,  and, 
when  our  host  said  that  he  might  want  help,  I  did  not  see 
my  way  to  refuse  the  first.  I  confess,  too,  that  I  was 
amused  and  curious;  the  boy  was  attractive,  with  mobile 
face,  dark  hair  and  big,  black  eyes;  I  liked  his  quick  smile 
and  rather  mischievous  laugh,  above  all,  I  respected  his 
good-nature  in  picking  up  a  total  stranger,  who,  so  far  as 
one  can  justify  private  acts  of  violence,  had  been  most  justi- 
fiably punished. 

We  passed  through  the  hall  into  a  lofty  room  with  long 
windows  far  up  the  walls  above  ten  feet  of  oak  panelling, 
rough-cut  beams  melting  into  the  shadows  of  the  roof  and 
a  block-floor  half -covered  with  rugs.  On  a  dais  to  our 
right  as  we  entered  stood  a  long  refectory  table  between 
two  rows  of  heavily  carved  Spanish  oak  chairs;  at  the 
far  end  was  a  grand  piano;  low  book-cases  ran  round  the 
walls,  there  were  three  or  four  big  oil-paintings  above  the 
panelling,  and  arranged  in  half -circles  round  the  two  fires 
were  luxuriously  large  sofas  and  arm-chairs.  I  was  a  little 
reminded  of  a  college  hall,  when  I  looked  at  the  severe  table 
on  this  dais,  the  black-beamed  roof  and  panelled  walls;  I 
thought  of  the  perfect  club  smoking  room,  when  I  tried  one 
of  the  chairs ;  and  the  whole  room,  as  I  surveyed  its  warm, 
bright  emptiness  from  the  doorway  suggested  a  stage  scene 
at  the  rise  of  the  curtain. 


AN  ARABIAN  NIGHT  39 

"It's  rather  jolly,  isn't  it?"  said  my  host,  when  I  ex- 
pressed my  admiration.  "The  bedrooms  are  all  in  the  new 
part,  but,  when  we're  not  asleep,  we  shall  feed  and  work 
and  live  here.  Personally  I  never  want  more  than  one 
room  and,  if  this  one  isn't  big  enough,  I  should  like  to  know 
what  is.  I'm  sorry  my  wife  isn't  in,  she  could  shew  you 
round  so  much  better ;  but  she's  dining  out  to-night." 

He  settled  the  injured  man  in  comfort  on  a  long  sofa  and 
went  to  a  telephone  by  the  piano.  While  he  waited  for  his 
call,  we  were  invited  to  help  ourselves  from  a  side-table  on 
the  dais,  where  a  generous  choice  of  cake,  sandwiches, 
fruit,  cold  meat,  cheese  and  drinks  of  many  kinds  awaited 
us.  He  hoped  that  we  should  find  something  to  our  taste; 
people  were  apt  to  drop  in  at  all  hours,  he  assured  us,  so  it 
was  as  well  to  have  something  handy.  I  poured  myself 
out  a  brandy  and  soda  and  accepted  one  of  his  cigars. 
My  young  friend  took  for  granted  much  that  is  not  usually 
taken  for  granted,  but  I  tried  to  harmonise  with  his  mood 
and  succeeded  better,  I  think,  than  Grayle,  who  walked 
slowly  about  the  room,  staring  at  the  furniture  and  pictures, 
but  not  committing  himself  to  criticism.  My  cigar  was 
hardly  alight  when  the  flame-coloured  silk  curtain  over  the 
door  was  drawn  aside  and  a  girl  came  in,  looked  round  at 
us  incuriously  and  cut  herself  a  slice  of  cake.  As  she 
prepared  to  eat  it,  she  caught  sight  of  the  figure  on  the 
sofa  and  walked  quickly  up  to  our  host,  who  murmured 
something  and  shook  his  head.  Five  minutes  later  the  doc- 
tor arrived,  and,  while  he  began  his  examination,  I  an- 
nounced that  I  must  go  home. 

"My  wife  will  be  back  any  minute  now,"  our  host 
pleaded,  putting  a  repeater  to  his  ear.  "Are  you  sure  you 
won't  stay?" 

"Let  us  come  again  in  day-light,"  I  said.  "I'm  really 
rather  tired  now.  I've  been  travelling  a  lot  lately." 

He  bowed  with  smiling  courtesy. 

"I  won't  keep  you,  but  please  come  whenever  you  feel 
inclined  to.  You  just  push  the  door,  as  I  explained " 

"Don't  you  ever  lock  it?"  asked  Grayle,  breaking  silence 


40  SONIA  MARRIED 

for  the  first  time  since  we  had  set  out  from  Parliament 
Square. 

The  young  man's  black  eyes  smiled  wonderingly. 

"Why  should  I?"  he  asked. 

"Prevent  things  being  stolen,"  Grayle  answered. 

"Nobody's  stolen  anything  yet, — and  we've  been  here 
a  week !  But,  if  anybody  did  steal,  it  would  probably  mean 
that  he  wanted  it  more  than  we  did." 

"What's  your  objection  to  locking  it?"  Grayle  pursued. 

The  boy  stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  swaying 
backwards  and  forwards  from  heel  to  toe  and  smiling  mis- 
chievously, with  his  luminous  black  eyes  upon  our  faces. 

"It  seems  so  inhospitable!"  he  laughed,  "and  I  love 
symbols." 

"But  who  d'you  keep  it  open  for  ?"  I  asked. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  laughed. 

"Your  friend,  the  doctor,  his  patient,  that  lady  who  came 
in  a  moment  ago.  You,  if  you  will  come  again." 

"I  shall  certainly  come  again,"  I  said,  as  we  shook  hands. 

Walking  along  Millbank,  Grayle  broke  into  an  unexpected 
laugh. 

"I  thought  I'd  met  most  kinds  of  lunacy,"  he  remarked. 
"Fellow  said  he  was  in  the  House,  didn't  he?  I  must  look 
him  up  in  the  directory  to-morrow  and  see  what  their 
name  is.  'The  Sanctuary/  I  suppose  that's  a  symbol,  too." 


A  reputation  for  honesty  is  often  embarrassing;  when 
coupled  with  efficiency,  it  is  always  disastrous.  For  five- 
and-twenty  years  I  have  reeled  under  the  name  of  a  "good 
business  man,"  and  this  has  exposed  me  to  attack  by  every 
impulsive  woman  and  woolly-headed  man  who  has  wanted 
something  done  without  quite  knowing  how  to  do  it,  who  has 
wished  money  collected  without  quite  knowing  how  to  set 
about  it,  who  has  dragged  his  committee  and  himself  knee- 
deep  into  the  mire  of  stagnant  insolvency  without  knowing 


AN  ARABIAN  NIGHT  41 

whether  to  go  on  or  to  struggle  back.  Then  someone  has 
said,  "We  must  co-opt  Mr.  Raymond  Stornaway." 

As  the  reputation  has  long  ceased  to  be  an  honour  and 
is  now  only  a  nuisance,  I  propose  to  affect  no  false  modesty 
about  it.  Before  the  war  I  was  always  being  made  a 
governor  of  some  new  school  or  hospital,  and  my  success 
is  to  be  measured  by  the  fact  that  I  almost  invariably  got 
my  own  way  in  committee — (if  I  was  not  voted  into  the 
chair  at  once,  I  overwhelmed  the  chairman  until  he  yielded 
place) — and  as  invariably  I  raised  the  funds  which  I  had 
been  appointed  to  find.  Perhaps  I  hoped  that,  as  everyone 
had  comfortably  survived  my  absence  for  a  year,  I  should 
be  allowed  a  respite,  but  on  the  morrow  of  this  Arabian 
Night  of  mine  I  was  to  discover  that  London  contained  as 
many  voluble,  sympathetic  and  unpractical  women  as  ever, 
all  convinced  that  they  had  only  to  form  a  committee  of 
their  friends,  dispense  with  book-keeping,  insert  their 
photographs  in  the  illustrated  papers  and  stretch  out  both 
hands  to  a  man  who  knew  a  man  who  had  a  friend  on  one 
of  the  daily  papers. 

Lady  Maitland  rustled  in,  grey-haired  and  majestic,  as  I 
was  finishing  breakfast  the  first  morning ;  the  Duchess  of 
Ross  starved  me  into  submission  before  she  would  let  me 
go  down  to  luncheon ;  and  by  night  I  was  duly  included  in 
the  Committees  of  the  Belgian  Relief  Fund,  the  Emergency 
Hospital  Fund  and  the  Prisoners  of  War  Relief  Fund.  The 
following  day  Mountstuart  of  the  Treasury  wheedled  me  in- 
to the  Deputy  Commissionership  of  the  War  Charities  Con- 
trol Department,  and  I  found  myself  after  an  interval  of 
thirty  years  once  more  a  Government  servant,  charged  to 
see  that  the  amateur  enthusiasm  of  Eleanor  Ross  and  her 
friends  did  not  defraud  the  public  too  flagrantly  and  that 
a  reasonable  proportion  of  the  money  collected  was  in  fact 
paid  over  to  the  objects  for  which  it  had  been  raised. 

Throughout  August  and  the  first  half  of  September  I 
set  myself  to  learn  my  new  duties,  spending  the  morning  in 
the  St.  James'  Street  Committee  rooms  and  the  afternoon 
at  the  Eaton  Hotel,  where  my  Department  had  been  in- 


42  SONIA  MARRIED 

stalled  in  a  faded  coffee-room  enlivened  by  a  sardonic  por- 
trait of  Lord  Beaconsfield  in  Garter  robes  and  made  busi- 
ness-like by  rickety  trestle  tables,  paste  pots  and  letter  trays, 
internecine  telephones  and  japanned  deed-boxes  earmarked 
as  His  Majesty's  property  by  a  white  crown  and  "G.R."  It 
took  me  several  bashful  days  to  grow  acclimatised  to  the 
epicene  life  of  the  office,  but  I  discovered  in  time  and  with 
relief  that  the  expensive  young  women  with  the  Johnsonian 
capacity  for  conversation  and  tea  were  every  whit  as  much 
frightened  of  me  as  I  of  them.  The  men  afforded  material 
for  my  insatiable  interest  in  my  fellow  creatures;  we  had 
a  few  journalists,  a  stockbroker  or  two,  several  college 
tutors,  an  elderly  miscellany  which  had  retired  some  years 
before  and  was  returning  to  active  service  for  the  duration 
of  the  war,  two  or  three  men  rejected  or  invalided  out  of 
the  army  and  three  or  four  whose  reason  for  not  being  in 
the  army  was  not  so  obvious — a  gathering  which  was  partly 
patriotic,  wholly  impecunious  and  very  different  from  the 
collection  of  unfledged  naked  intelligences  which  were  dis- 
tributed through  the  public  offices  of  other  days  by  the 
Civil  Service  Commissioners. 

When  I  had  subdued  Lady  Pentyre  in  the  morning  and 
ploughed  through  the  familiar  files  in  the  afternoon,  I  de- 
voted the  evening  to  private  business.  A  year's  accumula- 
tion of  letters  made  a  considerable  pile,  which  was  not  re- 
duced by  the  kindly  friends  who  thought  it  necessary  to 
congratulate  me  on  my  return;  nor  was  my  leisure  in- 
creased by  those  others  who  invited  me  to  lunch  or  dinner 
with  a  persistency  that  brooked  no  refusal.  In  time,  how- 
ever, I  had  read  myself  abreast  of  the  periodical  literature 
produced  by  the  hospitals  and  schools;  in  time,  too,  I  be- 
gan to  tackle  the  Lancing  inheritance  and  paid  formal  visits 
to  Ripley  Court  and  the  house  in  Pall  Mall  to  see  that  they 
were  satisfactory  to  the  War  Office.  So  long  as  the  war 
continued,  I  was  not  likely  to  be  faced  by  poor  Deryk 
Lancing's  inability  to  dispose  of  the  income  of  the  Trust. 

A  month  slipped  imperceptibly  away  before  I  had  got  rid 
of  the  arrears  of  work  and  felt  justified  in  taking  on  extra 


AN  ARABIAN  NIGHT  43 

burdens.  Then  I  paid  my  first  visit  to  the  House  of  Com- 
mons and  tried  in  one  evening  to  get  the  temper  of  a  House 
which  I  had  left  toiling  acrimoniously  in  1914  with  the 
third  presentation  of  the  Home  Rule  Bill.  The  Front 
Benches  were  pleasantly  mingled  in  late-found  amity,  there 
was  a  solid,  unquestioning  Ministerial  majority,  but  in  place 
of  an  official  opposition  I  found  a  curious  collection  of 
cliques  not  wholly  satisfied  with  all  the  heroic  remedies  of 
the  Government  and  fearful  that  criticism  might  be  con- 
strued as  factiousness.  I  was  to  find  later  that,  with  the 
abdication  of  the  House  of  Commons,  all  control  of  ad- 
ministration fell  gradually  into  the  hands  of  the  Press. 

The  Smoking  Room,  which — like  the  rest  of  London — 
moved  in  a  regular  cycle  of  elation  and  depression,  opti- 
mism and  despair,  was  in  deep  gloom  my  first  night.  The 
recruiting-figures  were  shrinking  daily,  we  could  look  for 
no  help  from  America  and  what  Lady  Maitland  called 
"that  Man  Wilson's  'too  proud  to  fight'  nonsense."  War- 
saw had  just  fallen,  and  Russian  Poland  lay  at  the  mercy 
of  the  enemy;  earlier  in  the  week,  too,  we  had  experi- 
enced our  first  Zeppelin  raid  and,  while  it  was  easy  to 
count  the  casualties  and  demonstrate  the  700,000  to  I  odds 
against  any  one  of  us  being  killed,  we  felt  that  something 
remained  to  be  done  and  that  these  birds  of  death,  how- 
ever exciting  to  watch,  should  not  be  allowed  to  fly  to  and 
fro  at  will,  hover  their  destructive  hour  and  depart  un- 
scathed. 

As  I  can  do  nothing  with  criticism  which  is  afraid  to  ma- 
terialise into  action,  I  decided  to  leave  the  House  early  and, 
being  at  a  loose  end,  to  pay  my  promised  call  at  "The 
Sanctuary."  The  fact  that  I  had  let  a  month  go  by  without 
discovering  my  host's  name  disturbed  me  little  in  a  house 
where  so  much  was  taken  for  granted,  and  I  boldly  pushed 
open  the  door,  as  I  had  been  bidden,  and  looked  into  the 
long,  warm  room.  By  firelight  it  seemed  empty  at  first; 
then  I  heard  voices  and  saw  the  disabled  agitator  sitting  on 
a  sofa  with  his  leg  up,  talking  to  the  girl  whom  I  had  seen 


44  SONIA  MARRIED 

on  my  last  visit.    As  I  hesitated  by  the  door,  she  jumped 
up  and  made  me  welcome. 

"Leg  not  right  yet,  then?"  I  said,  as  I  joined  them  by 
the  sofa.  "By  the  way,  my  name's  Raymond  Stornaway." 

"Mine's  Hilda  Merryon,"  said  the  girl  at  once. 

I  had  not  had  much  opportunity  of  observing  her  before, 
but  I  saw  now  that  she  was  young  and  slight,  with  black 
hair  and  very  pale,  regular  features.  She  had  in  her  man- 
ner, too,  something  scornful  which  I  found  immediately 
antagonistic. 

"Oh,  I  shall  be  here  for  weeks,"  said  the  young  agitator, 
"if  they'll  keep  me.  We're  tuberculous  as  a  family,  and 
the  knee  will  probably  turn  out  tuberculous.  I'm  Peter 
Beresford." 

My  niece  Yolande,  who  buys  all  modern  poetry  that  she 
can  find,  tells  me  that  I  ought  to  have  been  certainly  the 
wiser  and  perhaps  the  more  impressed  by  this  information ; 
and,  if  I  had  spent  the  last  year  in  England  instead  of 
abroad,  I  might  very  well  have  read  of  Beresford's  es- 
capades with  the  police.  Various  people  have  from  time 
to  time  contributed  fragments  of  his  biography.  I  believe 
that  he  started  as  the  dreamy  and  eccentric  son  of  a  Lin- 
colnshire family  and  that  on  leaving  school  he  had  be- 
taken himself  to  Moscow  on  a  self-conscious  literary  holi- 
day. Once  there,  he  refused  to  come  back.  The  sombre,  in- 
toxicating magic  of  Dostoevski  had  drawn  him,  Russia  laid 
her  spell  upon  him;  and,  when  funds  from  home  were  cut 
off,  he  starved  and  feasted,  worked  and  slumbered  for  two 
years,  until  the  woman  with  whom  he  was  living  forsook 
him.  A  violent  reaction  sent  him  to  Cambridge,  a  strangely 
experienced  and  natively  rebellious  freshman,  for  he  had 
written  poetry  and  abandoned  it,  read  medicine  and  aban- 
doned it,  mixed  in  revolutionary  society  and  drifted  under 
a  haunting  police  surveillance  which  only  relaxed  when 
powerful  friends  urged  his  reluctant  steps  homeward. 

"No  more  public  meetings  for  the  present,  then,"  I  said. 

Anyone  may  call  the  words  fatuous,  but  they  were  harm- 
less and  not  ill-natured.  I  quote  them  because  of  their 


AN  ARABIAN  NIGHT  45 

effect  in  lashing  Beresford  to  a  passion  only  describable 
as  insane.  I  have  never  met  anyone  who  knew  him  as  a 
boy,  I  cannot  say  whether  he  was  naturally  neurotic  or 
whether  too  early  acquaintance  with  oppression  had  warped 
his  mind,  but  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  him  between  this  night 
and  our  last  meeting  and  I  have  consistently  felt  from  the 
moment  of  this  encounter  that  he  was  separated  from  cer- 
tifiable madness  by  a  hair's  breadth.  He  had  all  the  suspi- 
cion, the  sudden  fury,  the  courage  and  the  obstinacy  of 
fanaticism,  the  whole  streaked  with  morbidity.  We  talked 
long  that  night,  and  every  chapter  of  his  Russian  Odyssey 
ended  with  the  refrain  "Alone  of  the  beasts  man  delights 
in  torturing  his  fellows;'*  yet,  when  he  described  a  meet- 
ing in  Petersburg  being  broken  up  by  a  charge  of  Cos- 
sacks, I  could  have  sworn  that  there  was  gloating  in  his 
tale  of  casualties,  as  with  a  man  who  will  pay  money  to 
stare  at  physical  deformity.  Against  this,  his  hatred  of 
oppression  was  rooted  in  a  poet's  love  of  beauty.  His 
quarrel  with  society  in  peace  was  that  it  made  man  a  soul- 
stunted  slave  and  the  countryside  an  industrial  ash-heap, 
in  war  that  it  made  him  a  disembowelled  and  screaming  re- 
proach of  the  Maker  who  fashioned  him  in  His  image. 
Beresford  had  a  sense  of  colour,  form  and  sound  which  a 
man  will  never  know  unless  he  be  born  with  it.  Again 
and  again  it  came  out  in  his  descriptions.  And  then  I  re- 
member his  making  a  sarcastic  and  grotesquely  ineffectual 
speech  to  a  knot  of  drunken  loafers. 

"Do  you  feel  that  the  sort  of  thing  you  were  saying  the 
other  night  does  much  good?"  I  persisted,  as  he  glared  at 
me,  breathing  quickly. 

His  sudden  blaze  of  anger  seemed  to  dab  two  spots  of 
scarlet  on  his  shining,  prominent  cheek-bones. 

"For  you — no  good!"  he  cried.  "I  told  those  fools  not 
to  fight,  I  asked  them  what  they  were  fighting  for!  They 
didn't  know.  How  should  they?  But  you  know.  Keep 
the  dogs  fighting  one  another,  and  they  won't  turn  on  you. 
But  when  your  troops  come  back,  the  troops  that  you  have 


46  SONIA  MARRIED 

drilled  and  taught  to  shoot,  when  they  ask  why  their  com- 
panions were  killed " 

The  girl  relaxed  the  scornful  attitude  of  aloofness,  which 
she  had  preserved  throughout  the  evening,  to  touch  his  arm 
warningly ;  he  coughed  and  went  back  to  his  cigarette. 

I  laughed  at  him,  partly  because  it  was  good  for  him  and 
partly  to  help  me  keep  my  own  temper. 

"That  stuff  didn't  go  down  the  other  night,  and  it  won't 
go  down  with  me.  You've  been  talking  quite  sensibly  so 

far "  He  bowed  ironically.  "You  can't  make  war 

without  killing  people,  and  there  would  have  been  no  peace 
or  safety,  if  we'd  stood  out.  Of  course,  if  you  want  to  see 
this  country  or  Russia  treated  as  Belgium  has  been 
treated " 

He  snorted  contemptuously  and  told  me,  as  an  eye-wit- 
ness, that  the  Belgian  atrocities  could  at  their  worst  al- 
ways be  matched  by  the  Russian  atrocities  in  East  Prus- 
sia. ("Alone  of  the  beasts  man  delights  in  torturing  his 
fellows.")  But  why  strain  at  the  gnat  and  swallow  the 
camel?  The  major  atrocity  was  war;  and,  the  greater  the 
war,  the  greater  the  atrocity.  "The  English  were  not  too 
humane  in  South  Africa.  No.  And  South  Africa  was 
child's  play,  it  didn't  matter  who  won.  You  were  less 
humane  still  in  putting  down  the  Indian  Mutiny,  where 
you  were  fighting  for  our  lives.  Germany  is  fighting  for  her 
life,  she  must  fight  how  she  can.  A  screen  of  women  and 
children  before  the  advancing  armies  ?  One  husbands  one's 
troops.  The  Zeppelin  attacks  ?  One  always  likes  to  under- 
mine civilian  moral,  to  make  the  whimperers  at  home  yelp 
for  peace  on  one's  own  terms — (and  are  not  you  high- 
minded  English  warring  on  civilians — women  and  children, 
too — by  blockading  Germany?).  This  is  a  war  of  nations 
with  all  the  nations'  human  and  material  resources  poured 
into  the  scale.  If  you  want  to  fight,  fight  to  win!  Sink 
your  hospital  ships!  They  will  have  to  be  replaced,  and 
fewer  troops,  less  food,  less  ammunition  will  be  carried 
in  consequence." 

He  threw  himself  back  exhausted  and  gave  way  to  a 


AN  ARABIAN  NIGHT  47 

fit  of  coughing  which  threatened  to  tear  him  in  pieces.  I 
looked  at  my  watch  and  got  up  to  go. 

"You  should  have  preached  this  before  the  war,"  I 
suggested. 

"It  will  be  before  the  next  war,"  he  gasped.  "And  war 
there  will  be!  I'm  sick  of  this  'war-to-end-war'  claptrap! 
That's  been  thought  in  every  war,  it  was  thought  when 
Europe  was  leagued  against  Napoleon,  as  it  is  now  leagued 
against  the  Kaiser!  There  will  be  war  until  the  fools  I 
addressed  that  night,  those  dogs  who  fight  for  the  masters 
that  betray  them,  turn  and  tear  their  masters  limb  from 
limb.  Yes.  If  they  don't  do  that  before  the  world  is  ripe 
for  another  vintage,  if  they  wait  till  present  memories 
have  faded  and  another  generation  of  old  men  sits  in  power 
to  send  young  men  to  their  death " 

His  pity  again  became  merged  in  imaginative  blood-lust 
until  he  seemed  to  revel  in  the  horror  of  his  own  descrip- 
tion. Science  was  to  be  applied  without  mercy  or  dis- 
crimination. When  the  maximum  of  destruction  had  been 
effected  in  the  field,  the  war  would  be  carried  behind  the 
lines  to  those  who  made  its  continuance  possible.  There 
would  be  no  quarter  for  prisoners,  who  might  escape,  nor 
for  the  wounded,  who  might  recover  and  fight  again.  The 
nurses  and  doctors  who  dragged  the  wounded  back  to  life 
and  patched  them  into  the  semblance  of  men  were  making 
new  soldiers;  it  was  not  convenient  that  the  enemy  should 
be  presented  with  new  soldiers,  so  the  war  must  be  con- 
tinued against  these  nurses  and  doctors.  And  against  the 
countrymen,  who  raised  food  for  the  troops,  and  the  artifi- 
cers, who  supplied  them  with  arms,  and  the  women,  who 
came  to  take  men's  places  on  the  farm  and  in  the  work- 
shop, and  the  old  men,  who  lent  money  to  buy  more  guns 
and  shells,  and  the  young  boys,  who  day  by  day  drew  nearer 
to  the  age  when  they,  too,  would  be  soldiers,  and  the  last 
woman  in  the  country,  who,  if  she  did  nothing  else,  could 
bear  a  child  to  the  last  man.  .  .  . 

Beresford's  voice  rose  until  it  broke,  and  his  words 
poured  out  more  and  more  quickly.  The  fellow  had  the 


48  SONIA  MARRIED 

impressiveness  which  is  born  of  conviction,  and  the  girl  by 
his  side  no  longer  attempted  to  restrain  him,  but  a  sound 
unheard  by  me  stopped  him  abruptly,  and  he  glanced  over 
his  shoulder  with  quick  apprehension,  as  the  door  opened 
and  closed.  It  was  not  the  glance  that  I  associate  with 
an  easy  conscience,  and  I  was  suddenly  sorry  for  the  man. 
A  moment  later  the  hunted  look  left  his  face,  as  the  flame- 
coloured  curtain  was  drawn  aside,  and  my  host  appeared 
in  sight.  There  was  the  same  whimsical  smile  in  his  big, 
black  eyes  that  I  had  seen  when  we  met  before — mis- 
chievous, kindly,  and  baffling.  He  threw  his  hat  into  a 
chair  and  gave  his  cane  to  the  Saint  Bernard  to  carry; 
as  he  came  into  the  room  I  was  struck  by  the  lightness 
and  grace  of  his  movements.  The  atmosphere  cleared  of 
its  electricity. 

"Only  a  small  party  to-night,"  he  murmured. 

The  girl  on  the  sofa  looked  up  quickly. 

"I'm  here,"  she  said,  "and  Mr.  Beresford  and "  She 

hesitated  and  blushed  to  find  that  she  had  forgotten  my 
name. 

"Raymond  Stornaway,"  I  supplemented.  "You  said  I 
might  come  again." 

He  turned  and  grasped  my  hand. 

"I've  heard  our  friend  George  Oakleigh  speak  about 
you!"  he  cried.  "I  didn't  know,  the  other  night,  that  it 
was  you.  Haven't  you  just  been  released  from  Austria? 
My  wife  said  something.  .  .  .  They're  a  funny  people,  the 
Austrians ;  there's  no  pleasing  them.  Now,  when  they  get 
hold  of  you,  they  simply  won't  let  you  go,  but  the  last 
time  I  was  in  the  country — officially — they  escorted  me 
over  the  frontier  and  hinted  that  they'd  put  a  bullet  in 
me,  if  I  ever  came  back.  And  all  because  of  a  regrettable 
little  disturbance  in  Vienna,  when  an  Austrian  officer  said 
things  about  my  father  and  myself  which  I  thought — and 
think  still — a  gentleman  does  not  say." 

As  I  looked  at  the  animated,  thin  face,  I  was  trying  hard 
to  remember  where  I  had  seen  it  before.  At  the  mention 
of  Vienna  I  saw  again  an  open-fronted  cafe  on  the  Ring- 


AN  ARABIAN  NIGHT  49 

Strasse  with  white-aproned  waiters  bustling,  gesticulating 
and  shouting  round  a  swaying  mass  of  combatants;  in  the 
heart  of  the  struggle  I  saw  a  thin-faced,  black-haired  boy 
fighting  like  a  tiger;  one  arm  hung  limp  and  helpless  by 
his  side  or  flapped  horribly  with  the  movements  of  his 
body,  and  his  face  was  streaming  with  blood.  I  saw  his 
companion  bring  down  the  lamp  with  a  blow  from  a  chair, 
I  remember  how  infinitely  more  alarming  and  suggestive 
the  cries,  the  groans  and  general  tumult  of  the  fight  became 
in  the  darkness.  It  was  no  affair  of  mine,  however,  and 
I  was  far  down  the  Ring-Strasse  when  the  police  cut  their 
way  into  the  melee  with  drawn  swords. 

"I  was  in  the  cafe  at  the  time,"  I  told  him.  "You 
were  there  with  Jack  Summertown.  Pm  surprised  that 
either  of  you  got  out  alive." 

"You  were  there?"  he  echoed  with  a  burst  of  boyish 
laughter.  "It  was  a  great  night !  I've  still  got  some  of  the 
marks !  I  wondered  who  you  were.  .  .  .  Of  course,  we've 
got  scores  of  friends  in  common.  You  know  Bertrand 
Oakleigh  in  the  House  ?  Well,  he  lives  here.  The  place  in 
Princes  Gardens  is  being  used  as  a  hospital,  so  George 
has  a  room  at  his  Club  and  the  old  man  stays  with  us. 
He  gave  us  the  house — he's  always  been  astonishingly 
generous  to  me — but  of  course  I  couldn't  accept  it  like 
that.  I  only  let  him  give  it  to  me  on  condition  that  I  was 
allowed  to  share  it  with  others.  Perhaps  now  my  sym- 
bolism  " 

He  broke  off  with  a  laugh  and  asked  whether  the  others 
had  looked  after  me  well. 

"I'm  sorry  my  wife's  not  here,"  he  said.  "Let  me  see, 
she  wasn't  in  the  last  time,  either;  the  fact  is,  Colonel 
Grayle  telephoned  to  say  that  he'd  been  given  a  box  for 
some  theatre  and  would  we  dine  with  him  and  go  on? 
Pd  already  promised  to  dine  at  the  House  and  I  don't 
go  to  the  play  much,  anyway,  but  she  thought  she'd  like 
to  go,  and  she  hasn't  come  in  yet.  To-night  you've  got 
to  wait." 


50  SONIA  MARRIED 

It  was  half -past  eleven,  and  I  held  out  my  watch  to  him, 
shaking  my  head. 

"Look  at  the  time,"  I  said. 

He  took  out  the  repeater  that  I  had  seen  before  and 
set  it  striking. 

"I  set  mine  by  Big  Ben  this  evening,"  I  told  him. 

"Ah,  but  I  can't  see  it.  I — haven't  the  use  of  my  eyes, 
you  know.  If  you  feel  you  must  go,  I  will  only  remind  you 
that  the  door  will  be  open  next  time.  I've  got  any  amount 
to  talk  to  you  about,  and  my  wife  will  be  most  fright- 
fully sorry  to  have  missed  you  again.  I  rather  gathered 
that  you  and  Grayle  and  she  had  been  dining  in  the 
same  house  that  night,  but  you  were  at  different  ends 
of  the  table,  and  she  didn't  hear  your  name." 

"I  don't  yet  know  yours,"  I  said. 

"David  O'Rane,"  he  answered.  "There's  no  particular 
reason  why  you  should,  unless  George  has  ever  talked  to 
you  about  me.  Now,  will  you  swear — on  your  honour — 
that  you'll  come  again?  And  it  must  be  before  I  go 
away.  Good-night !" 


CHAPTER  TWO 

THE  OPEN  DOOR 

"I  was  a  baby  when  my  mother  died 
And  father  died  and  left  me  in  the  street 
I  starved  there,  God  knows  how,  a  year  or  two 
On  fig-skins,  melon-parings,  rinds  and  stalks, 
Refuse  and  rubbish.  .  .  . 

But,  mind  you,  when  a  boy  starves  in  the  streets 
Eight  years  together,  as  my  fortune  was, 
Watching  folk's  faces  to  know  who  will  fling 
The  bit  of  half-stripped  grape-launch  he  desires, 
And  who  will  curse  and  kick  him  for  his  pains, — 
Which  gentleman  processional  and  fine, 
Holding  a  candle  to  the  Sacrament, 
Will  wink  and  let  him  lift  a  plate  and  catch 
The  droppings  of  the  wax  to  sell  again, 
Or  holla  for  the  Eight  and  have  him  whipped, — 
How  say  I? — nay,  which  dog  bites,  which  lets  drop 
His  bone  from  the  heap  of  offal  in  the  street, — 
Why,  soul  and  sense  of  him  grow  sharp  alike, 
He  learns  the  look  of  things,  and  none  the  less 
For  admonition  from  the  hunger-pinch." 

ROBERT  BROWNING:   Fra  Lippo  Lippi. 


IT  was  not  until  I  had  introduced  some  little  organisa- 
tion into  my  work  that  I  had  opportunity  or  justification 
for  seeing  my  friends.  I  have  reached  an  age  when  I 
like  to  go  early  to  bed  between  two  long  days  of  work; 
I  never  ceased  to  wonder,  therefore,  at  the  nervous  vitality 
of  some  of  the  people  whom  I  was  meeting;  London  was 
fuller  than  I  had  ever  known  it,  the  customary  autumn 
exodus  had  ended  with  the  war;  and,  what  with  a  few 
hundred  officers  home  on  leave  and  athirst  for  amuse- 
ment, what  with  a  few  thousand  girls  working  in  hos- 
pitals, canteens  and  Government  offices,  anyone  who 

51 


32  SONIA  MARRIED 

wanted  distraction  had  not  to  look  long  for  it.  The  rest- 
lessness which  seized  London  every  summer  before  the 
war  seemed  to  have  increased  and  become  permanent, 
with  an  astounding  new  licence  which  I  found  hard  to 
•understand.  I  suppose  the  war  broke  down  most  of 
the  old  social  conventions,  but  I  sometimes  wondered  in  the 
early  days  whether  there  was  anything  which  the  strictly 
brought  up  and  closely  chaperoned  young  girl  of  other  days 
was  now  not  allowed  to  do.  .  .  . 

Young  O'Rane  carried  me  off  to  my  first  war  party. 
After  I  had  looked  for  him  unsuccessfully  for  some  weeks, 
we  had  been  dining  at  the  House  and  talking  business  and 
school  politics,  for  the  Governors  of  Melton  School  had 
lately  co-opted  me  in  place  of  Aylmer  Lancing,  and  I  had 
heard  from  George  that  O'Rane  was  temporarily  on  the 
staff  there.  At  ten  o'clock  he  told  me  that  he  was  due 
home  for  a  house-warming  and  plunged  into  a  descrip- 
tion of  his  domestic  life  with  all  the  eagerness  of  a  child — 
which  is  what  he  was — shewing  a  new  toy.  Old  Bertrand 
Oakleigh  had  given  them  the  house  as  a  wedding  present; 
ever  since  his  illness  at  the  outbreak  of  war  (no  one  was 
allowed  to  call  it  a  stroke)  the  old  man  had  needed  some 
little  attention ;  what  easier  than  to  set  a  couple  of  rooms 
aside  for  him?  And  the  place  was  so  big  that  you  could 
give  a  shakedown  to  "most  anyone" — and  a  meal.  It  was 
what  O'Rane  had  always  wanted  to  do--as  in  the  Middle 
Ages  (rather  vaguely).  ...  I  should  hardly  believe  some 
of  the  people  he'd  had  there  even  in  five  weeks.  .  .  . 
People  were  such  fun;  Beresford,  for  instance  .  .  .  full 
of  good  stuff,  full  of  white-hot  idealism  which  only  needed 
to  be  directed.  "And  he's  fallen  in  love  with  my  wife, 
so  she's  gently  taming  him." 

He  threw  out  his  sentences  with  jerky  exuberance,  pas- 
sionately serious  at  one  moment  and  laughing  at  himself 
and  me  the  next. 

And  that  girl  I  had  met,  Hilda  Merryon.  ...  A  little 
throb  of  anger  came  into  O'Rane's  voice ;  she  had  led  a 
most  awful  life  for  about  three  years;  some  brute  had 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  53 

victimised  her,  and  her  sanctimonious  devil  of  a  father 
had  turned  her  out  of  the  house.  .  .  .  Now  she  was  a  new 
woman,  though  years  must  pass  before  she  overcame  her 
bitterness  and  hatred  towards  the  world,  and,  when  he 
went  back  to  Melton,  she  was  coming  as  a  sort  of 
secretary.  .  .  . 

We  had  reached  the  house,  and  he  threw  open  the  door 
and  stood  aside  to  let  me  in. 

"I  hardly  felt  this  was  a  normal  household  when  I  was 
here  before,"  I  said. 

In  the  light  of  the  hall  I  could  see  his  black  eyes  gleam- 
ing with  laughter. 

"You  should  hear  old  Oakleigh!"  he  suggested.  "It's 
a  phase,  my  dear  boy.  You'll  grow  out  of  it.  You 
see  the  devil  of  a  lot  of  strange  things,  if  you  live  to  be 
as  old  as  I  am.'  "  He  paused  to  laugh  at  his  own  exquisite 
mimicry  of  Bertrand's  disillusionised,  pontifical  manner  and 
gruff,  disparaging  voice.  "Well,  he  wouldn't  eat  a  twelve- 
course  dinner  with  a  starving  man  opposite  him.  ...  It 
makes  life  so  much  easier,  if  nobody  thinks  you're  quite 
sane.  Won't  you  go  in?" 

"Does  your  wife  enter  into  the  spirit  of  it?"  I  asked, 
as  I  looked  at  the  silk  curtains  bellying  away  from  the 
white  walls. 

He  evaded  the  direct  question  almost  apologetically. 

"It's  a  big  change  after  the  life  she  led  before  the  war," 
he  conceded,  "but  then  the  war  itself  is  a  big  change." 

He  had  mentioned  a  party,  but  I  was  hardly  prepared 
for  the  army  of  occupation  which  I  found  in  the  library. 
Every  chair  at  the  long  table  was  filled,  and  the  guests  had 
overflowed  and  scattered  throughout  the  room,  bearing 
their  plates  and  tumblers  with  them.  Mrs.  O'Rane  jumped 
up  from  her  place  between  Beresford  and  Deganway,  mak- 
ing me  welcome  and  apologising  for  having  missed  me 
before. 

"This  is  such  an  irregular  menage,"  she  exclaimed  in 
a  clear,  high  voice  that  dominated  the  clear,  high  voices 
around  her.  "David's  at  the  House  so  much,  and  I  spend 


54  SONIA  MARRIED 

my  days  serving  out  clothes  to  Belgian  refugees,  or  finding 
them  nouses  and  work,  or  getting  up  concerts  and  things 
to  raise  money  for  them,  but  somebody's  sure  to  be  at  home 
at  some  hour  of  the  night.  This  is  our  house-warming, 
and  of  course  David  forgot  all  about  it."  She  twisted 
her  arms  round  her  husband's  neck  and  kissed  him  with 
an  ecstasy  that  told  me  stabbingly  of  something  that  had 
been  left  out  of  my  life,  "Admit  you  did,  sweetheart, 
or  you  won't  get  any  supper." 

"/  remembered !  I  invited  Mr.  Stornaway,"  he  protested. 
"And  you're  going  to  look  after  him  while  I  strum.  You 
seem  to  have  got  some  people  here,  Sonia.  And  there's  a 
sort  of  hint  that  some  of  them  have  been  smoking." 

The  crowd,  the  heat,  the  babble  of  voices  and  the  fog 
of  tobacco  smoke  robbed  me  of  resistance  and  individu- 
ality. Before  I  had  been  three  minutes  in  the  room,  I  was 
eating  a  meal  which  I  did  not  need,  drinking  hock-cup 
which  I  knew  disagreed  with  me  and  trying  to  carry  on 
two  conversations  and  at  the  same  time  to  see  who  was 
already  there  and  who  was  arriving.  Lady  Maitland  in- 
troduced me  volubly  to  a  watchful-eyed,  supercilious  boy 
whose  first  play,  she  assured  me,  had  taken  London  by  storm. 
Had  I  seen  it?  If  not,  I  must  go  at  once;  and  she  re- 
freshed her  memory  of  its  name  by  reference  to  the  author. 
When  he  escaped  in  bored  embarrassment  from  his  own 
biography,  she  explained  loudly  a  second  time  that  that 
was  Eric  Lane,  the  great  coming  dramatist,  and  confided 
as  loudly  that  he  was  desperately  in  love  with  Babs,  little 
Babs  Neave,  Barbara  Neave,  Lady  Barbara  Neave — it  was 
no  use  my  pretending  that  I  didn't  know  her — and  that 
Crawleigh  was  at  his  wits'  end,  because  it  was  quite  out 
of  the  question  for  them  to  marry,  but  Babs  was  such  an 
extraordinary  girl  that,  if  you  opposed  her,  you  might 
simply  drive  her  into  his  arms.  .  .  .  Lady  Maitland  shook 
her  vigorous  grey  head  with  an  air  of  concern  and  at  once 
asked  me  to  meet  "both  the  silly  children"  at  luncheon, 
because  it  would  interest  me.  .  .  . 

Before  the  end  of  supper  I  was  beginning  to  get  my 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  55 

bearings  and  to  resolve  the  unassimilated  party  into  its 
elements.  O'Rane  was  at  the  piano,  surrounded  by  George 
Oakleigh,  two  shy  and  hero-worshipping  pupils  from  MeK 
ton,  Miss  Hilda  Merryon — still  aloof  and  implacable — and 
Beresford.  In  the  middle  of  the  room  I  deduced  from  Sir 
Roger  Dainton's  presence  a  purely  family  gathering  of  Mrs. 
O'Rane's  relations;  their  tongues  were  as  busy  as  their 
eyes,  and  they  looked  slightly  bewildered — as  well  they 
might — and  a  trifle  disapproving. 

On  the  dais  Mrs.  O'Rane  ruled  supreme.  Even  without 
the  explanation  which  George  strolled  across  to  drawl  in- 
to my  ear,  I  placed  her  by  her  surroundings  as  belonging  to 
a  society  with  which  I  was  very  familiar  before  the  war. 
Lady  Sally  Farwell  sat  on  one  side  of  her,  giving  an  excel- 
lent and  somewhat  ill-natured  imitation  of  Lady  Barbara 
Neave,  who  with  young  Eric  Lane  was  hardly  out  of  ear- 
shot. Mr.  Evelyn  Staines,  the  romantic  hero  of  half  a 
hundred  musical  comedies  at  the  Regency,  sat  on  the  other, 
looking  out  of  humour,  surprisingly  unkempt  and  un- 
expectedly old.  There  was  a  youthful  claque  of  young 
officers,  two  or  three  actresses,  whose  appearance  the  illus- 
trated papers  had  made  known  to  me,  and  a  sprinkling  of 
middle-aged  nondescripts.  Before  the  war  I  used  to  or- 
ganise a  good  many  charity  bazaars,  charity  balls  and 
charity  matinees;  and  Mrs.  O'Rane's  troupe  was  always 
much  in  evidence.  She  has  since  told  me  that  she  and 
Sally  Farwell  appeared  in  three  duologues  and  two  oriental 
ballets  on  my  behalf,  though  I  am  ashamed  to  say  that 
my  neglect  of  details  left  me  ignorant  of  my  indebtedness. 

There  were  a  dozen  smaller  groups,  thrust  into  corners 
or  wedged  between  the  heavier  furniture.  I  threaded  my 
way  in  and  out  with  a  word  here  and  a  bow  there,  blinded 
by  the  smoke  and  deafened  by  the  noise.  All  seemed  to 
be  enjoying  themselves,  however,  and  I  was  reasonably 
amused  and  interested.  From  time  to  time,  when  O'Rane 
began  to  sing  or  whistle  to  his  own  accompaniment,  there 
was  a  rippling  hush;  from  time  to  time,  again,  he  would 
break  off  with  a  sudden  laugh  and  plunge  into  dance  music, 


56  SONIA  MARRIED 

whereat  most  of  us  flattened  ourselves  against  the  walls, 
while  Mrs.  O'Rane  and  Mr.  Evelyn  Staines  gave  an  exhibi- 
tion of  highly  technical  stage-dancing. 

"I  don't  quite  fit  your  uncle  Bertrand  into  this,"  I 
observed  to  George,  when  we  found  ourselves  out  of 
harm's  way  on  the  dais. 

"He  looked  in  for  a  moment  to  offer  Raney  his  blessing 
and  a  cheque.  Fortunately  he  can't  hear  much  from  his 
end  of  the  house,"  was  the  answer. 

Mrs.  O'Rane  ended  a  perilous  series  of  movements  with 
a  more  perilous  leap  on  to  her  partner's  shoulder  and  was 
borne  breathless  and  triumphant  to  the  table  for  hock- 
cup. 

"George,  are  we  shocking  Mr.  Stornaway?"  she  asked 
across  me.  "I'm  so  sick  of  the  war!" 

She  jumped  down  and  looked  at  me,  breathing  quickly 
through  parted  lips.  Her  dress  was  daring,  and  at  this, 
my  first  unhurried  sight  of  her  at  close  quarters,  I  was 
as  much  fascinated  as  a  man  of  my  age  had  any  right 
to  be.  The  face  was  soft,  appealing  and  warm,  with  long- 
lashed  brown  eyes,  flushed  cheeks  like  ripe  apricots  and 
a  wistful  mouth  that  drooped  at  the  corners,  when  she 
was  disappointed,  and  pouted  over-quickly  when  she  did  not 
at  once  get  what  she  wanted.  It  was  a  wilful,  impatient 
little  face,  exacting  and  rather  obstinate,  without  very  much 
depth  of  character,  but  amazingly  mobile  and  young,  cap- 
able of  a  child's  ecstatic  abandonment  to  happiness  and  of 
a  melting  tenderness  when  she  looked  at  her  husband's 
unseeing  eyes  and  whimsical,  self -protective  smile. 

"In  some  ways  it's  extraordinarily  like  some  of  his 
omnium-gatherum  parties  at  Oxford,  Sonia,"  murmured 
George,  as  the  tireless  fingers  at  the  piano  passed  from 
waltz  to  march  and  from  march  to  Scandinavian  boating- 
song  half  as  old  as  time. 

Mrs.  O'Rane's  big  eyes  swam. 

"As  like  as  we  can  make  it,"  she  whispered  tremulously; 
and  I  was  conscious  of  a  new  fascination.  Though  I 
have  never  seen  a  woman  or  man  more  perfectly  put 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  57 

together,  the  head  on  the  neck,  the  neck  on  the  shoulders, 
the  hands  on  the  wrists  or  the  wrists  on  the  arms,  there 
was  something  skin-deep  and  mechanical  in  her  beauty — 
not  necessarily  reaching  to  the  heart — until  that  moment. 

The  softness  passed  as  suddenly  as  it  had  come,  and 
she  awoke  to  a  sense  of  her  duties  as  hostess. 

"I  want  to  introduce  you  to  my  mother,  Lady  Dainton," 
she  told  me. 

Under  cover  of  the  presentation  she  escaped  and  in 
another  moment  was  darting  with  the  movement  of  a 
dragon-fly  in  search  of  a  partner  for  the  savage  Hawaiian 
dance  which  her  husband  had  begun  to  play.  This  in  turn 
she  abandoned  to  give  extravagant  welcome  to  Sir  Adolphus 
Erskine  and  to  thank  him  for  a  string  of  pearls  which  she 
held  out  jubilantly  for  his  admiring  inspection. 

My  next  half-hour  was  more  varied  and  less  pleasant. 
I  was  introduced  to  Lady  Dainton,  who  claimed  acquaint- 
ance with  my  brother  and  insisted  that  we  had  met  at 
one  of  Aylmer  Lancing' s  parties  at  Ripley  Court;  I  was 
introduced  to  her  daughter-in-law,  who  had  lately  lost 
her  husband  and  now  engaged  me  in  a  sullen  debate  on 
compulsory  service  with  a  view,  so  far  as  I  could  follow 
the  poor  creature's  distraught  reasoning,  to  securing  that 
as  many  other  women  as  possible  should  lose  their  husbands. 
I  exchanged  a  few  words  with  Roger  Dainton  about  the 
state  of  parties  in  the  House  and,  as  I  fancied  that  I  had 
exhausted  the  family,  found  myself  confronted  once  more 
by  Lady  Dainton,  who  led  me  into  a  corner,  enquired  how 
long  I  had  known  O'Rane  and  begged  me  to  use  whatever 
influence  I  possessed  to  bring  this  folly  to  an  end.  Since 
my  first  sight  of  her  I  had  watched  a  storm-cloud  of 
disapproval  banking  up,  but  I  could  not  imagine  why  its 
force  should  be  expended  on  me. 

"I'm  not  narrow-minded,  don't  you  know?"  she  informed 
me  with  majestic  uncontradictability,  "but  this  is  the  first 
time  I've  seen  Sonia  since  she  was  married,  and  this — 
this  bear-garden  is  what  I  find." 

There  was  no  disputing  the  definition,  but  its  application 


58  SONIA  MARRIED 

was  limited,  for  she  flung  out  her  arm,  until  I  feared  it 
would  leave  its  socket,  in  the  direction  of  an  arm-chair 
where  Beresford,  shabbier  than  ever  by  contrast  with  the 
rather  rich  clothes  around  him,  was  holding  forth  with 
combative  resonance  on  the  hypocrisy  of  our  fighting  for 
the  free  development  of  the  smaller  nationalities  while  we 
held  our  Indian  Empire  in  unrepresentative  thraldom. 

"It's  not  what  Sonia's  accustomed  to,  it's  not  what  she 
has  a  right  to  expect !"  exclaimed  Lady  Dainton  with  rising 
indignation.  "That — that  creature  has  been  mocking  the 
people  who've  gone  out  and  given  their  lives  for  their 
country,  when  half  of  us  in  the  room  are  in  mourning.  As 
for  the  woman " 

"I  really  don't  feel  /  can  interfere,"  I  interrupted  dif- 
fidently. 

She  sighed  with  an  attempt  at  resignation. 

"I  didn't  know  how  well  you  knew  David,"  she  said. 
"Of  course,  he's  a  delightful,  gallant,  generous  soul — no- 
body's fonder  of  him  than  I  am — ,  but  he's  so  terribly 
impulsive,  don't  you  know?  I  really  hoped  that,  when 
Sonia  consented  to  marry  him,  she  would — well — tame 
him  a  little.  Dear  Diavid  will  pretend  that  everybody's 
like  everybody  else;  well,  I  don't  suppose  either  of  us  is 
a  snob,  Mr.  Stornaway,  but  there  are  distinctions,  don't 
you  know?  We  should  be  called  old-fashioned,  if  we  said 
anything,  but  some  of  the  people  here  to-night — of  course, 
Sonia's  a  wonderful  actress,  much  cleverer  than  half  the 
professionals  you  see,  so  she's  got  into  rather  a  theatrical 
set — I  suppose  that's  the  modern  spirit;  Eleanor  Ross  had 
a  woman  lunching  with  her  to-day  who  six  months  ago — 
well,  she  wouldn't  have  dared.  .  .  .  But  when  it  comes  to 
turning  a  private  house  into  a  sort  of  mission-room.  .  .  . 
One  can  carry  democracy  to  excess,  don't  you  know  ?" 

The  voice  was  rising  again,  and  Mrs.  O'Rane  danced  to 
my  side  and  snatched  me  away  on  the  plea  that  Lady  Mait- 
land  wanted  to  fix  a  day  for  my  meeting  with  Barbara 
Neave. 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  59 

"Was  darling  mother  being  tiresome?"  she  asked  sympa- 
thetically. "The  casual-ward  stunt,  I  suppose?" 

"What  do  you  feel  about  it  yourself  ?"  I  asked  her. 

"About  David's  lame  ducks  ?  Oh,  he  has  his  friends,  and 
I  have  mine,  and  it's  no  one  else's  business."  She  looked 
round  the  crowded  room  and  then  seemed  to  decide  that 
she  had  been  too  brusque.  "I  don't  know — yet,  whether  it 
will  answer,"  she  went  on  uncertainly.  "David's  always 
been  a  freak  about  money,  he'd  always  give  anything  to 
anybody.  Now  he  says  that  he'd  be  dishonoured,  if  he 
took  with  one  hand  and  refused  with  the  other.  .  .  .  He's 
rather  absurd,  poor  darling,  because  he  wouldn't  need  to 
take  anything  from  anybody,  if  he  hadn't  been  so  frightfully 
smashed  up  in  the  war.  And  if  I  don't  mind.  .  .  .  It's 
really  rather  fun,  however  mad  it  may  seen.  We've  all 
of  us  gone  mad  since  the  war.  Except  David.  You  didn't 
know  him,  but  he's  almost  sane  compared  with  what  he 
was  before."  She  abandoned  her  pose  of  affected  insin- 
cerity and  turned  to  me  with  shining  eyes.  "You  do  love 
David,  don't  you?"  she  asked. 

"My  dear  lady,  I've  only  met  him  twice,"  I  said. 

"Isn't  that  more  than  enough  ?"  Her  expression  changed 
restlessly;  and  I  remembered  wondering  how  long  she 
would  retain  her  looks,  if  she  continued  to  live  on  her 
nerves  like  this.  "Too  many  dam'  dull  Daintons  here,  you 
know.  I  made  certain  mother  would  think  this  sort  of 
thing  too  Bohemian.  She'd  like  me  to  have  a  prim  and 
proper  little  house  in  one  of  the  streets  about  here  and 
entertain  the  conventional  people  in  the  conventional  way 
— simply  wagging  my  tail  if  I  enticed  an  Under-Secretary 
here.  Mother'd  go  miles  for  an  Under-Secretary.  Well, 
it's  much  more  fun  inviting  the  amusing  people,  the  people 
you  like.  I  am  rather  a  Bohemian,  I've  always  led  my  own 
life.  I  do  now.  Darling  David  never  tries  to  make  me  do 
anything  or  stop  me  doing  anything,  he  never  wants  to  know 
what  I've  been  doing.  ...  All  the  same,  David's  'duty  to 
one's  neighbour'  stunt.  .  .  .  Thank  goodness!  he  doesn't 
expect  me  to  share  my  clothes  with  casual  visitors  I" 


60  SONIA  MARRIED 

She  stood  with  her  eyes  fixed  thoughtfully  and  without 
complete  comprehension  on  her  husband's  thin,  mobile  face. 
His  own,  black  and  arresting  for  all  their  sightlessness, 
were  turned  to  the  rafters  and  the  shadows  of  the  roof, 
as  he  sat  with  head  bent  back  and  fingers  idly  modulating. 
Then  Lady  Dainton  came  forward  and  took  her  leave ;  the 
party  broke  up  rapidly,  and,  by  the  time  that  I  left,  only 
Vincent  Grayle  remained,  talking  to  his  hostess,  while 
Beresford  transferred  himself  to  the  other  end  of  the  room, 
ostentatiously  turning  his  back  and  resting  his  injured  leg 
on  the  edge  of  O'Rane's  piano  stool. 

2 

I  left  the  grotesque  party  with  the  feeling  that  contrary 
to  all  reasonable  expectation  I  had  enjoyed  myself  immoder- 
ately. The  enthusiasm  survived  the  night,  and  at  break- 
fast the  following  day  I  informed  Yolande  that  I  proposed 
to  invite  the  O'Ranes  to  dine  with  us.  Here,  however,  I 
was  met  with  unforeseen  opposition.  I  have  no  idea  how  the 
antagonism  started,  but  at  some  period  of  their  careers 
Yolande  had  decided  that  Mrs.  O'Rane  was  of  those  who 
"do  all  the  things  one  doesn't  do,"  while  Mrs.  O'Rane  has 
been  known  to  dismiss  my  niece  alliteratively  as  a  "prig, 
prude  and  poseuse." 

"You'll  regret  it,"  Yolande  told  me  frankly  enough, 
sagaciously  smoothing  back  a  strand  of  auburn  hair  from 
her  forehead.  "She's  very  fascinating,  but  I've  an  instinct 
about  her,  and  you'll  find  she's  all  superfluity  and  flashi- 
ness.  Any  number  of  people  have  been  in  love  with  her, 
of  course,  but  she'll  grate  on  you.  Ask  any  woman." 

One  dinner,  I  felt,  could  not  commit  me  very  deeply, 
and  it  was  my  own  house,  although  I  was  already  debating 
the  desirability  of  moving  into  bachelor  quarters  and  giv- 
ing up  my  remaining  rooms  to  the  Canteen  Executive. 
Yolande,  however,  was  to  be  spared  in  spite  of  me. 

Whether  Mrs.  O'Rane  disaproved  of  her  as  strongly  as 
she  disapproved  of  Mrs.  O'Rane,  I  am  incompetent  to  say, 
but  I  was  informed  in  terms  of  suitable  regret  that  she  was 
either  dining  out  or  having  people  to  dine  with  her  every 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  61 

night  of  the  week;  was  it  possible,  on  the  other  hand,  for 
me  to  come  on  one  of  the  days  when  they  were  at  home? 
I  had  not  yet  finished  that  talk  with  David  about  Melton. 
.  .  .  The  reminder  was  perhaps  inserted  as  a  reason  for  not 
inviting  Yolande. 

I  chose  my  night  and,  within  five  minutes  of  entering  the 
house,  I  should  have  confessed,  had  I  been  honest  with  my- 
self, that  Yolande  was  right.  An  air  of  tension  greeted  me, 
an  interrupted  controversy  was  at  once  resumed,  and  I 
found  myself  required  by  my  hostess  to  arbitrate  in  a  lovers' 
quarrel.  The  cause  of  dispute  was  the  girl  Hilda  Merryon, 
whose  career  O'Rane  had  briefly  sketched  for  my  benefit; 
fortunately  she  was  not  present  at  the  time,  but  with  O'Rane 
composed,  pacific  and  unyielding  in  an  arm-chair  with  his 
big  St.  Bernard  beside  him,  Mrs.  O'Rane  flushed  and  ag- 
grieved with  one  foot  on  the  fender  and  one  bare  arm 
shielding  her  face  from  the  fire,  and  Vincent  Grayle,  my 
fellow  guest,  directing  and  perhaps  stimulating  the  contro- 
versy, I  felt  that  we  had  enough  disputants. 

"I'll  put  it  to  Mr.  Stornaway!"  cried  Mrs.  O'Rane,  as 
soon  as  our  greetings  were  over.  "Mr.  Stornaway,  we  were 
only  married  in  July,  it's  now  the  end  of  September,  and 
I  don't  think  David  ought  to  go  off  and  leave  me  for  three 
months.  It  isn't  necessary,  I've  asked  him  not  to " 

O'Rane  stroked  the  dog's  head  reflectively. 

"But  you've  told  me  you  can't  get  away,  Sonia,"  he  said 
at  length.  "You've  got  your  Belgian  refugee  work,  you've 
got  a  string  of  engagements  and  you've  got  Beresford  laid 
up  for  months  yet.  You  admitted,  too,  you'd  simply  be  at 
a  loose  end  in  Melton." 

"I  should  be  with  you."  She  tossed  her  head  back  until 
she  was  looking  at  him  through  half-closed  eye-lids.  "Of 
course,  if  you  don't  want  me  .  .  ." 

"But,  darling,  your  work  here  .  .  .?" 

"Anybody  can  do  that!"  Mrs.  O'Rane  interrupted  un- 
guardedly. "That's  not  the  point,  though,  and  you  know  it 
isn't.  I  say  you  oughtn't  to  go.  It's  like  setting  a  race- 
horse to  pull  a  removal  van." 


62  SONIA  MARRIED 

In  the  pause  that  followed,  I  wondered  what  opportuni- 
ties for  propaganda  Lady  Dainton  had  enjoyed  since  our 
meeting  the  week  before. 

"I've  promised  to  resign  the  moment  I've  paid  back  the 
money  I  owe,"  said  O'Rane  with  emphatic  reasonableness. 

"The  money  was  given  you  as  a  present." 

"But  I  can't  take  presents  of  that  kind  so  long  as  I'm  fit 
to  work.  Darling  Sonia,  you  don't  imagine  I  want  to  go 
away  from  you  for  three  months,  do  you  ?  If  you  can  come 
down  without  leaving  your  work  here  undone " 

"Oh,  I  should  be  in  the  way!"  she  interrupted  with  an- 
other toss  of  her  head.  "You've  got  your  Hilda." 

She  looked  round  the  room,  pointedly  inviting  us  to  fol- 
low the  direction  of  her  eyes  and  nodding  at  the  tidy  ar- 
rangement of  books,  the  filing-cabinet,  the  half-hidden  safe 
and  neat  library  card-catalogue.  I  could  see  O'Rane  blush- 
ing, as  I  myself  began  to  blush,  that  such  a  scene  should  be 
enacted  before  comparative  strangers. 

"You  mustn't  say  things  like  that,"  he  remonstrated 
gently;  then,  with  the  lightness  of  affected  inspiration, 
"We'll  put  it  to  Mr.  Stornaway,  as  you  suggest !  I'm  com- 
mitted, sir,  as  I  think  in  honour  and  certainly  by  an  under- 
standing with  the  Headmaster,  to  go  back  to  Melton  on 
Thursday.  You've  met  Miss  Merryon ;  I'm  taking  her  with 
me  to  act  as  a  sort  of  secretary.  She'll  have  rooms  in  the 
town  and  will  lend  me  the  use  of  her  eyes  in  the  evenings ; — 
I  was  frightfully  handicapped  last  term  and  had  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  the  boys'  good-nature.  I  know  it's  an  unusual  ar- 
rangement, but  the  circumstances  are  unusual.  I  got  Dr. 
Burgess's  approval " 

"Did  you  tell  him  anything  about  her  past?"  Mrs.  O'Rane 
broke  in,  tapping  a  gold  slipper  with  scarlet  heel  against 
the  fender. 

O'Rane  smiled  dreamily. 

"I'm  chiefly  concerned  with  her  future,"  he  answered. 
Something  in  the  voice  and  smile  told  me  that  he  was 
spiritually  as  far  removed  from  his  wife  as  the  mad  from 
the  sane. 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  63 

There  was  a  long  pause  which  Grayle  broke  by  shrugging 
his  shoulders,  sighing,  shaking  his  head  at  Mrs.  O'Rane 
with  an  expression  of  rueful  sympathy  and  finally  opening 
his  cigarette-case  with  a  muttered  request  for  permission  to 
smoke. 

"Of  course,  the  world  will  say — ,"  he  began. 

O'Rane  laughed  to  himself. 

"I  don't  know  that  I've  ever  paid  much  attention  to  what 
the  world  says.  But  Mr.  Stornaway  is  going  to  arbitrate." 

I  looked  at  one  disputant  after  another.  Mrs.  O'Rane's 
expression  can  best  be  described  as  mulish;  O'Rane  was 
smiling,  debonair  and  yet,  I  felt, — it  was  the  first  time  that 
I  had  felt  it — unshakable.  What  part  Grayle  was  playing  I 
could  not  determine;  if  he  had  been  invited  to  arbitrate 
before  my  arrival,  he  had  not  been  successful,  and  I  wished 
that  he  would  leave  me  to  compose  the  quarrel  uninter- 
rupted. 

"If  you've  promised  yourself  to  Dr.  Burgess,"  I  told 
O'Rane  after  consideration,  "you  can't  disappoint  him  at 
forty-eight  hours'  notice.  It's  out  of  the  question.  You 
tell  me  that  he  approves  of  your  taking  Miss  Merryon?" 

"He'd  do  anything  for  me,"  O'Rane  answered  easily. 

"Even  so,  if  I  may  put  it  bluntly,  it's  an  imprudent  thing 
to  do.  Surely  the  simplest  and  most  natural  solution,  as 
well  as  the  pleasantest  for  both,  is  for  Mrs.  O'Rane  to 
accompany  you.  If  you  want  work  found  for  Miss 
Merryon,  that  ought  not  to  be  difficult  in  these  times;  I'll 
pay  any  money  for  a  competent  shorthand-writer  in  my 
own  office." 

Neither  O'Rane  nor  his  wife  offered  any  criticism,  but 
Grayle  considerately  supplied  the  reason  which  both  were 
hiding. 

"That  was  discussed,  I  think,"  he  said,  "but  I  gather  Mrs. 
O'Rane  has  her  hands  pretty  full  with  work  here." 

"But  you  said  anyone  could  do  that,"  I  reminded  her. 
"And,  as  long  as  Bertrand's  here,  there'll  be  some  one  to 
look  after  Beresford." 

In  addition  to  Bertrand  there  were  two  maids  and  a 


64  SONIA  MARRIED 

plenipotent  housekeeper,  for  Mrs.  O'Rane  liked  to  boast  of 
her  domestic  incompetence.  Mine  was  the  obvious  solution, 
and  I  could  see  that  she  recognised  it.  There  was  a  sup- 
pressed yawn — and  a  gain  of  three  seconds. 

"If  I  died,  some  one  would  have  to  do  my  work,"  she 
admitted,  "or,  it  wouldn't  be  done.  .  .  .  But,  Mr.  Storn- 
away,  David's  a  member  of  Parliament,  his  whole  future 
is  in  the  House ;  isn't  it  ridiculous  for  him  to  waste  his  time 
teaching  a  pack  of  schoolboys  ?" 

As  she  shifted  her  ground,  I  felt  that  my  work  was  done. 

"I  haven't  got  much  future  of  any  kind,"  I  said,  "but 
I'm  a  begging-letter  writer  in  the  morning  and  a  second- 
class  clerk  in  a  government  office  the  rest  of  the  day.  These 
are  not  normal  times,  Mrs.  O'Rane,  and  he  can't  leave  his 
chief  stranded  at  the  last  moment  without  anyone  to  take 
his  place.  When  he  comes  back  at  Christmas,  there'll  be 
an  opportunity  for  reconsideration." 

O'Rane  said  nothing,  and  I  was  disappointed.  I  felt  that, 
as  he  had  got  his  own  way,  it  would  have  been  diplomatic 
and  perhaps  convincing  to  pretend  that  he  was  consenting 
to  a  compromise.  Mrs.  O'Rane  looked  at  him  out  of  the 
corner  of  one  eye  and  pouted  openly. 

"We  might  just  as  well  not  be  married,  if  you  don't  want 
me,"  she  said. 

"Come,  come !  Mrs.  O'Rane !"  I  cried. 

I  am  afraid  that  the  mild  protest  only  inflamed  her. 

"Well,  he  doesn't!  The  other  night  we  were  talking 
about  marriage.  Peter  Beresford  says  that  any  man  who 
loves  a  woman  may  do  anything  to  win  her;  it  doesn't 
make  any  difference  whether  she's  married  or  not " 

O'Rane  leaned  forward  and  resumed  his  stroking  of  the 
dog's  head. 

"Perhaps  it  makes  a  difference  to  the  woman,"  he  sug- 
gested. 

"Then  David  said,"  she  went  on,  regardless  of  this  inter- 
ruption, "that  men  and  women  weren't  justified  in  spoiling 
each  other's  lives  by  clinging  on  when  one  was  tired  of  the 
other." 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  65 

Every  word  was  purposefully  clear,  and  at  the  end  she 
paused  invitingly.  O'Rane  sprang  up  with  a  ring  of  laughter 
and  held  out  his  arms  to  receive  her. 

"Sweetheart!" 

She  made  no  movement  until  he  had  come  a  pace  nearer, 
then  she  stepped  unrespondingly  aside.  O'Rane's  hands  met 
on  the  marble  of  the  mantelpiece. 

"I — missed  you/'  he  said  with  a  little  breathless  laugh. 

I  could  not  turn  to  see  Grayle's  face,  but  I  was  rigid  with 
horror  that  such  a  trick  should  be  played  on  a  blind  man. 
Gradually  what  she  had  done  dawned  on  Mrs.  O'Rane,  and 
she  threw  her  arms  convulsively  round  her  husband's  neck. 

"God  forgive  me !"  she  whispered.  "Oh,  my  darling,  I'm 
mad !  I  don't  know  what  I've  been  saying !" 

I  turned  to  Grayle  and  asked  him  for  a  cigarette.  A 
moment  later  I  heard  a  car  stopping  at  the  door,  and  Beres- 
ford  was  helped  into  the  house  after  his  drive. 

From  time  to  time  throughout  the  meal  (whenever,  per- 
haps, Mrs.  O'Rane  was  trying  to  make  amends),  my  mind 
went  back  to  the  scene.  The  O'Ranes'  outlook  and  tempera- 
ment were  so  dissimilar  that  I  could  see  no  common  ground 
between  them.  The  outsider  never  knows  why  any  two 
people  marry  and  is  content  to  believe  in  the  existence  of  an 
affinity  hidden  from  his  view.  These  two  were  both  so  full 
of  vitality,  both  so  good-looking,  and,  above  all,  both  so 
young  that  I  tried  hard  to  resist  a  feeling  of  melancholy 
and  to  persuade  myself  that  I  had  been  an  inadvertent 
eavesdropper  at  the  oldest  and  most  trumpery  quarrel  in 
the  world  rather  than  the  witness  of  an  inevitable  breach. 
The  long  windows  on  either  side  of  the  room  were  warmly 
curtained  in  flame-coloured  silk ;  the  two  fires  glowed  com- 
fortingly on  to  their  half-circles  of  chairs  and  sofas.  Mrs. 
O'Rane,  who  could  make  a  story  out  of  nothing,  poured  out 
an  endless  stream  of  anecdotes  against  herself.  When  din- 
ner was  over  and  we  left  the  dais  for  a  distant  view  of 
high-hung  chandeliers  reflected  softly  in  the  gleaming  sur- 
face of  the  long  refectory  table,  I  could  not  but  be  reminded 
of  the  Grail  scene  in  "Parsifal." 


66  SONIA  MARRIED 

The  discordant  note,  the  one  persistently  discordant  note, 
was  struck  by  Beresford.  Alien  in  mind  from  the  rest  of 
us,  he  neither  forgave  nor  forgot  the  contemptuous  toe 
which  had  once  searched  his  body  for  signs  of  breakage; 
and  after  dinner  he  withdrew  to  a  far  divan  and  spent  the 
evening  conversing  in  whispers  with  Mrs.  O'Rane,  who  sat 
by  him  on  a  footstool,  while  he  played  with  her  long  amber 
necklace.  The  rest  of  us  reverted  to  a  wholly  undergraduate 
disputation,  led  by  O'Rane  on  the  theme  of  my  own  un- 
expected fortune  and  developed  by  me  into  a  disquisition 
on  education  and  the  art  of  healing,  though  every  question 
and  view  was  put  forward  in  the  hope  of  making  my  host 
expound  his  own  philosophy. 

"You  can't  get  efficiency  without  organisation,"  Grayle 
insisted  as  we  laid  the  lessons  of  the  war  to  heart.  "Noth- 
ing can  hold  together  without  discipline.  Look  at  Ger- 
many." 

For  myself,  I  have  always  regarded  German  organisation 
as  the  over-advertised  co-ordination  of  the  largest  number 
of  second-rate  intelligences,  but  the  criticism  was  taken 
from  me  by  Beresford,  who  interrupted  his  own  conversa- 
tion to  inform  the  room  at  large  that  it  was  one  thing  to 
teach  a  man  how  to  shoot  and  quite  another  to  be  sure 
that  he  did  not  end  up  by  shooting  his  own  officers.  Mrs. 
O'Rane  held  up  one  finger  and  pursed  her  lips,  only  to  let 
them  break  a  moment  later  into  a  smile. 

"Efficiency  is  the  gravest  menace  that  the  war  holds  over 
us,"  said  O'Rane  reflectively.  "Whenever  I've  met  it,  it 
means  being  unkind — with  Government  sanction — to  some 
one  weaker  than  yourself ;  Jesus  Christ  would  not  have  been 
tolerated  by  the  Charity  Organisation  Society,  all  the  bour- 
geois press  would  have  said  that  He  was  pampering  the 
incompetent  and  maintaining  the  survival  of  the  unfit.  Effi- 
ciency frightens  me." 

Whether  he  was  speaking  seriously  or  in  paradox,  he  had 
struck  a  note  of  idealism  which  jarred  on  Grayle,  who 
threw  away  his  cigar  half-smoked. 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  67 

"If  we  don't  learn  our  lesson  out  of  this  war,  we  don't 
deserve  to  win  it,"  he  answered,  reaching  for  his  stick. 

"But  what  is  the  lesson?"  O'Rane  asked,  more  of  him- 
self than  of  us.  "Do  you  men  find  that  you  think  best  at 
night?"  he  went  on  reflectively.  "There's  less  distraction 
.  .  .  and  I'm  always  thinking  at  night  now.  I  would  say 
that  every  man  who  cOmes  out  of  this  war  alive  is  a  re- 
prieved man  and  that  we  don't  deserve  to  win  it  unless  we 
learn  that  the  only  crime  in  all  the  world  is  cruelty.  .  .  . 
If  we  can't  affect  others,  we  can  at  least  affect  ourselves. 
It's  no  use  waiting  for  an  act  of  parliament  to  make  you 
humane ;  if  you're  prepared  to  jump  into  the  river  to  save  a 
child  from  drowning,  you  must  be  prepared  to  jump  through 
a  window  to  save  it  from  starving."  He  shook  his  head 
and  turned  to  me.  "But  how  you're  going  to  teach  that, 
sir,  even  with  your  million  a  year  to  endow  schools.  .  .  . 
The  Church  has  had  Peter's  keys  for  nearly  two  thousand 
years,  but  how  many  of  us  would  literally  pick  a  man  out 
of  the  street,  turn  on  the  hot  water  for  him,  lend  him  a 
razor  and  a  rig-out,  keep  him  in  funds  till  his  ship  comes 
home.  .  .  ."  As  he  paused,  I  looked  beyond  him  to  the  sofa 
where  Beresford  lay  idly  fingering  Mrs.  O'Rane's  amber 
beads.  "Of  course  it's  all  figurative  and  the  gorgeous 
imagery  of  the  East  and  that  sort  of  thing,  but  I  don't  know 
how  any  man  could  remain  a  professing  Christian  for  two 
minutes  if  he  didn't  believe  that  Christ  would  bathe  the  feet 
of  the  first  tramp  on  the  road.  That's  far  more  important 
to  the  human  race  than  the  Crucifixion.  But  then  Christ 
was  always  poor,  and  you  can't  begin  to  be  charitable  until 
you've  known  what  it  means  to  be  poor."  His  voice  sank 
and  grew  silent.  "I'm  boring  you,  Grayle!"  he  exclaimed 
penitently,  as  a  boot  creaked  on  the  polished  floor. 

"I  must  be  getting  home,"  was  the  answer,  following  hot- 
foot on  an  ill-suppressed  yawn.  "Boring  me,  indeed  ?  En- 
joyed it  all  immensely."  He  got  up  and  walked  towards 
Mrs.  O'Rane,  to  whom  he  bade  an  elaborate  good-bye,  while 
I  followed  slowly  behind,  wondering  how  such  a  woman 


68  SONIA  MARRIED 

ever  came  to  marry  such  a  man.  "I  shan't  see  you  this  side 
of  Christmas,  I  suppose?" 

She  looked  up  a  little  negligently  without  releasing  Beres- 
ford's  hand. 

"But  I  thought  I  was  dining  with  you  on  Friday  ?" 

"I  understood  you  were  going  to  Melton." 

Mrs.  O'Rane's  expression  became  blank. 

"I  must  think  about  this,"  she  said.  "Yes.  I  don't  know 
how  long  it'll  take  me  to  tidy  up  things  here.  .  .  .  Oh,  I 
shall  certainly  be  in  London  on  Friday.  David  darling,  you 
understand  that  I  can't  possibly  get  away  at  a  moment's 
notice — any  more  than  you  can." 

Her  husband  nodded. 

"Come  whenever  it  suits  you,"  he  said,  as  he  walked  on 
ahead  to  open  the  door  for  us. 

Grayle  lingered  behind  for  a  moment  in  the  middle  of  the 
room. 

"You  mustn't  stay  on  my  account,"  he  said  to  Mrs. 
O'Rane.  "It  won't  be  a  party,  you  know." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence;  then  she  laughed  pro- 
vocatively and  gave  a  mischievous,  sideways  glance  at 
Beresford,  which  only  Grayle  and  I  saw. 

"Jealous?"  I  heard. 

"Not  a  bit.  I  shouldn't  like  you  to  come,  though,  if  you 
were  simply  going  to  be  bored." 

"Oh,  if  you'd  rather  I  didn't  come,  I  won't." 

I  passed  into  the  street  and  out  of  earshot.  As  I  shook 
hands  with  O'Rane,  Grayle  joined  us,  and  we  walked  to- 
wards the  House  on  the  look-out  for  a  taxi.  He  was  silent 
at  first  and  then  started  to  discuss  the  evening  communique 
from  the  Front.  I  could  not  help  wondering  whether  he, 
too,  in  middle-aged  company  under  the  penetrating  chill  of 
an  autumn  mist  realised  that  it  was  beneath  his  dignity  to 
be  flirting  with  O'Rane's  young  wife  and  doubly  ridiculous 
to  be  taking  it  seriously  and  devoting  an  evening's  ill- 
humour  to  the  enterprise. 

"Do  you  care  about  dining  on  Friday?"  he  asked  me 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  69 

suddenly.     "Mrs.  O'Rane  will  be  there,  and  I'll  rope  in 
some  more  people." 

3 

Ever  since  his  return  from  South  Africa,  Grayle  had 
occupied  a  small  old  house  in  Miliord  Square,  with  a  bleak, 
discouraged  garden  bounded  at  the  far  end  by  a  private 
garage.  I  always  wondered  how  he  confined  himself  in  so 
small  a  space,  for  his  turbulent  flaxen  head  seemed  to  scrape 
every  ceiling  and  it  was  impossible  for  anyone  to  pass  him 
on  the  stairs  or  in  the  doorway  or  corridor.  When  Guy 
Bannerman  was  required  at  the  last  moment,  as  now,  to  fill 
an  unexpected  gap,  his  loose-knit,  centrifugal  body  seemed 
to  take  up  every  cubic  foot  of  space  not  already  appro- 
priated to  Grayle's  use.  But  as  a  rule  Guy  was  not  allowed 
to  leave  the  big  work-room  over  the  garage  where  he  cov- 
ered himself  and  his  clothes  in  three  different  shades  of  ink 
and  industriously  "got  up"  his  master's  subjects  and  wrote 
his  master's  speeches,  while  Grayle  himself  devoted  his 
talents  to  cultivating  personal  relationships,  or,  as  his 
enemies  would  say,  to  intriguing,  from  a  superstition  that, 
if  he  ever  let  slip  a  conspiracy,  it  might  not  return  to  him 
again. 

The  party  was  small,  the  dinner  perfectly  cooked  and 
served.  This,  at  least,  I  had  learned  to  expect  from  Grayle. 

Mrs.  O'Rane  was  on  one  side  of  me,  and  I  asked  how 
soon  she  was  going  to  Melton,  as  I  had  shortly  to  attend 
my  first  meeting  of  the  governing  body.  To  my  surprise  I 
heard  that  she  was  not  going  at  present. 

"You  see,  there's  my  Belgian  work,"  she  explained,  "and 
Peter  can't  walk  yet,  and  I  can't  very  well  leave  Mr.  Oak- 
leigh  to  the  care  of  the  servants.  Besides  I've  got  an  awful 
lot  of  other  things  to  do."  She  nodded  across  the  table  at 
Lady  Barbara  Neave.  "Mr.  Lane's  written  a  duologue,  and 
Babs  and  I  are  acting  in  it  at  the  Regency.  And  I've  got  a 
stall  at  the  Albert  Hall  in  November,  and  I'm  sure  to  be 
wanted  for  the  Imperial  Hospital  Fund  tableaux.  They 
can't  get  on  without  us,  can  they,  Babs  darling?"  Lady 


70  SONIA  MARRIED 

Barbara  jerked  her  fair  head  quickly  and  returned  to  her 
conversation  with  young  Lane.  "David  was  quite  right, 
too ;  I  should  be  at  a  loose  end  at  Melton." 

Her  reasons  flowed  easily,  but  they  were  not  consistent 
with  her  earlier  attitude. 

"I  thought  you'd  fixed  it  up  the  other  night,"  I  said. 

"No.  We  had  another  talk  after  you'd  gone.  It's  only 
three  months,  and,  if  he  really  wants  me — "  She  broke  off, 
leaving  me  to  surmise  that  she  was  engaging  in  a  trial  of 
strength  with  her  husband.  "This  is  quite  a  pre-war  dinner, 
isn't  it?  I  love  dining  with  Colonel  Grayle;  he's  one  of 
the  few  people  who  hasA't  got  the  war  on  the  brain.  I  do 
get  so  tired  of  war-talk,  j^ar-economies,  war-work.  I  wish 
the  thing  would  end,  but  Colonel  Grayle  says  it  will  never 
end  while  the  present  government's  in  power;  and  Peter 
says  there'll  be  a  revolution  when  it  does  end,  so  it's  a  cheer- 
ful look-out  either  way.  Don't  you  think  Peter's  improved 
since  he  fell  in  love  with  me?"  She  turned  to  look  down 
the  table  with  the  rapid  movement  of  an  animal,  and  the 
lamps  seemed  to  strike  sparks  of  gold  from  her  closely 
coiled  brown  hair.  "It  takes  people  different  ways ;  Colonel 
Grayle  will  hardly  speak  to  me  to-night,  just  because  I 
invited  him  to  dinner  and  then  forgot  all  about  it." 

"Mrs.  O'Rane,"  I  said,  "may  I  tell  you  that  you  talk  a 
great  deal  of  nonsense?" 

She  darted  a  glance  at  me  and  then  opened  her  eyes  ver y 
wide,  drawing  down  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

"Ah,  you're  hating  me  now!  And  I  thought  you  were 
surrendering  to  my  well-known  charm.  I  have  got  an  in* 
credible  amount  of  charm,  haven't  I?" 

"We  were  talking  about  Melton,"  I  reminded  her. 

"George — our  friend  George  Oakleigh,  I  mean;  he's 
known  me  all  my  life — ,"  she  went  on,  imperturbably 
munching  salted  almonds,  "George  says  that,  as  part  of  his 
education,  every  man  ought  to  marry  me  for  just  one 
month." 

"Actually  you've  been  married  two  and  a  half,  haven't 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  71 

you  ?"  I  enquired.  "Perhaps  you  haven't  arrived  at  the  full 
inwardness  of  George's  criticism." 

She  pouted  like  a  child  under  reproof. 

"I  suppose  you  both  mean  something  horrid."  Her  eyes 
lit  up  mischievously.  "I  must  tell  George  I've  found  an 
ally  for  him.  He's  always  rather  loved  me,  but  he  says 
quite  definitely  that  he  never  wanted  to  marry  me  even  for 
a  week.  He's  always  telling  me  so;  that's  why  we're  such 
friends.  I'm  afraid  you'll  never  even  rather  love  me ;  and 
I'm  ready  to  take  such  a  lot  of  trouble  with  you." 

Mrs.  O'Rane's  voice  is  faultlessly  clear ;  I  noticed  a  lull  in 
the  conversation  and  discovered  that  she  and  I  were  per- 
forming a  duologue  for  the  diveij^ion  of  our  fellow-guests 
and  the  exasperation  of  our  host. 

"Has  George  told  you  that  you  think  about  yourself  too 
much  ?"  I  asked,  as  a  self-conscious  murmur  rose  once  more 
around  us. 

"Oh,  if  you  want  a  list  of  my  bad  qualities,  go  to  your 
niece.  I'm  not  such  a  success  with  serious  people,  and 
Yolande  talks  about  'Ministers,'  when  she  means  'the  Gov- 
ernment,' and  '25  George  II,'  when  she  wants  to  quote  some 
musty  old  law ;  and  she  considers  herself  a  political  hostess 
because  she  once  bribed  the  Committee  of  the  Aborigines 
Protection  Society  to  meet  the  Governor  of  the  Seychelles 
at  dinner.  Yolande  would  start  a  salon  on  one  poet  and 
two  private  secretaries!  Oh,  I  know  she's  your  niece,  but 
you  can't  help  that."  She  paused  to  draw  breath.  "George 
only  thinks  that  I'm  second-rate." 

"I  think  that  you're  deliberately  second-rate,"  I  said. 
"Which  is  a  pity.  If  you'd  ever  got  to  grips  with  life,  if 
you'd  suffered  or  been  in  love " 

"D'you  mean  that  I'm  not  in  love  with  David  ?" 

"You're  still  trying  on  emotions  in  a  room  full  of  mirrors. 
By  the  way,  we  went  through  all  this  candour  and  self- 
absorption  in  the  'nineties,  and  I  think  people  did  it  better 
then.  If  you'll  take  advice  from  a  comparative  stranger, 
twice  your  age,  drop  all  this  patter  about  this  man  and  that 
being  in  love  with  you." 


72  SONIA  MARRIED 

Mrs.  O'Rane  became  suddenly  majestic. 

"You  mean  I'm  behaving  disloyally  to  David?"  she  de- 
manded. 

Her  majesty  was  as  superficial  and  unconvincing  as 
everything  else  about  her. 

"My  dear  young  lady,  if  you  must  try  these  airs  and 
graces,  don't  try  them  on  me,"  I  begged,  watching  curiously 
to  see  whether  there  was  any  criticism  she  would  resent  so 
long  as  it  was  focussed  on  her. 

She  turned  slowly  away  with  everything  of  affronted 
dignity  except  its  essence,  exactly  as  I  had  expected  her  to 
do.  A  moment  later  she  turned  to  me  again,  but  by  that 
time  Lady  Maitland,  whose  vigorous  head  and  neck  always 
makes  me  think  of  a  lioness  that  has  been  rolling  in  French 
chalk,  had  first  asked  me  to  find  a  place  in  my  office  for 
her  third  boy,  who  was  leaving  school  at  Christmas  and 
seemed  too  delicate  for  the  army,  though  he  was  excep- 
tionally quick  at  figures — just  the  man  that  the  Treasury 
wanted — and  then  enquired  what  I  knew  of  the  young 
Beresford  who  was  staying  at  "The  Sanctuary."  She  would 
like  me  to  bring  him  to  see  her  as  soon  as  he  was  able  to 
get  out.  He  was  a  poet,  she  understood ;  very  wrong-headed 
about  the  war,  but  a  good  talker  and  interesting  to  meet.  .  . . 
She  had  a  small  party  on  Thursday ;  that  man  Christie,  who 
had  been  removed  forcibly  from  the  House  for  calling  the 
Speaker  a  liar  and  refusing  to  withdraw,  a  ritualistic  clergy- 
man who  was  in  conflict  with  the  Court  of  Arches,  an 
obscure  traveller  who  had  proceeded  on  foot  from  Loanda 
to  Port  Sudan,  the  managing  director  of  the  Broadway 
music-hall  and  a  novelist  whose  name  she  had  forgotten. 

(I  may  here  say  that  I  went  and  was  given  the  oppor- 
tunity of  stroking  all  the  lions'  necks  twelve  hours  before 
the  proletariat  caught  sight  of  them  and  of  trying  to  explain 
Lady  Maitland  to  several  little  knots  of  bewildered  Scandi- 
navian and  Dutch  delegates  and  some  self-conscious  and 
incorruptible  Labour  Members  who  had  either  resigned 
from  the  Ministry  or  hoped  to  get  into  it.  What  Lady 
Maitland  thought  of  the  lions,  they  and  we  knew  at  once; 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  73 

what  the  lions  thought  of  Lady  Maitland  they  had  hardly 
time  to  formulate  before  being  hurried  away  to  tea  at  Ross 
House,  dinner  with  old  Lady  Pentyre  and  supper  at  Mrs. 
Carmichaers.  I  have  found  it  easier  never  to  refuse  any- 
thing to  Lady  Maitland,  but  I  hesitate  to  reckon  how  many 
times  in  a  political  crisis  I  have  been  persuaded  to  lead 
political  aspirants  to  school.  When  O'Shaunessy  was  re- 
turned as  a  Sinn  Feiner  and  refused  to  take  his  seat,  I,  who 
had  met  him  in  America  five  and  twenty  years  before,  was 
deputed  to  bring  him  to  luncheon  and  Federal  Home  Rule 
with  the  Carmichaels,  dinner  and  a  united-Ireland-in-the- 
face-of-the-enemy  with  the  Duchess  of  Ross.  There  was  to 
have  been  a  patient  search  for  compromise  at  Lady  Pen- 
tyre's  next  day,  but  O'Shaunessy  shook  his  head  at  me  over 
the  brim  of  his  tumbler  and  confided  that  these  people  gave 
you  too  much  talk  and  too  little  to  drink.) 

"You'd  better  get  Mrs.  O'Rane  to  bring  Beresford,"  I 
said.  "I  hardly  know  him." 

"Someone  must  get  hold  of  him  before  it's  too  late," 
Lady  Maitland  continued  gravely,  and  I  could  see  that  he 
was  going  to  be  adopted,  whether  he  liked  it  or  not.  "I  hear 
he's  got  great  ability,  and  it's  all  misdirected." 

"I'd  never  heard  of  him  before,"  I  confessed.  "But  then 
I  don't  read  modern  poetry." 

"I  heard  of  him  from  our  host — this  is  between  our- 
selves, of  course — ;  there  was  some  question  of  prosecuting 
him  again  for  one  of  his  pamphlets."  She  raised  her  voice 
to  demand  confirmation  of  Grayle,  but  he  would  only  shake 
his  head  rather  irritably  at  her  want  of  discretion  and  say 
that  it  was  not  in  the  province  of  his  department.  "I  must 
talk  to  dear  Sonia  about  him,"  she  went  on,  "and  we'll 
arrange  a  little  meeting." 

Not  only  have  I  led  promising  statesmen  by  the  hand, 
I  have  myself  of  late  been  alternately  schooled  and  courted 
in  a  way  that  was  hardly  known  to  me  before  the  war.  It  is 
partly  due,  I  suppose,  to  the  suspended  animation  of  the 
Caucus,  partly  to  the  increased  number  of  groups  and  their 
social  backers.  As  Lady  Maitland  convoyed  the  other 


74  SONIA  MARRIED 

women  to  the  drawing-room,  Grayle  threw  his  sound  leg 
across  the  shattered  knee  and  told  me  he  was  not  at  all  satis- 
fied about  our  reinforcements.  At  that,  after  but  five  weeks 
in  England,  I  knew  what  was  coming.  Guy  Bannerman, 
with  the  deep,  baying  voice  of  a  hound,  supplied  the  dwind- 
ling figures  of  the  daily  returns,  I  criticised  the  waste  of  re- 
sources in  men  and  ships  on  secondary  fields  of  war,  Grayle 
opined  that  the  country  would  never  appreciate  that  it  was 
at  war  until  every  man  was  mobilised  in  the  field,  the  ship- 
yard or  the  shop,  and  Maitland  took  the  safe  but  irritating 
and  unhelpful  line  that  Kitchener  knew  what  he  was  about 
and  that  we  must  leave  it  to  him. 

I  preferred  to  move  away  and  talk  to  young  Lane  about 
his  new  play,  but  Grayle  quickly  recalled  me  with  an  ex- 
hortation to  join  him  and  his  friends  in  their  effort  to 
galvanise  the  Government  to  action.  It  was  the  first  of  a 
long  series  of  appeals  which  terminated  a  year  later  with 
the  unblushing  bribe  of  an  office  which  I  had  as  little  fitness 
or  right  to  receive  as  Grayle  to  offer.  I  was  content  to  take 
refuge  in  Maitland's  advice  to  leave  it  to  the  Government 
(alternatively  to  "trust  the  P.  M.";  a  surprising  political 
retrogression  for  a  man  of  his  antecedents),  only  adding 
that  one  Government  should  not  have  to  shoulder  single 
responsibility  for  the  joint  blunders  of  all  the  Allies. 

"It's  something  to  cut  your  losses,"  said  Grayle  shortly 
and  with  an  air  of  disappointment,  "to  drop  a  mistaken 
policy  when  it's  proved  to  be  mistaken.  That's  what  I  want 
to  see  done;  and  that's  what  this  gang  of  yours  won't  do. 
You  watch  out;  France  and  Russia  will  make  a  separate 
peace,  if  we  don't  pull  our  weight.  Let's  come  up-stairs." 

On  entering  the  drawing-room,  Guy  Bannerman  strolled 
to  the  fire  and  entered  into  conversation  with  Lady  Barbara 
Neave.  Left  with  a  choice  of  Lady  Maitland  and  Mrs. 
O'Rane,  Grayle  pulled  up  a  chair  beside  Lady  Maitland, 
while  Mrs.  O'Rane  looked  at  him  like  a  chess-player  con- 
sidering his  opponent's  last  move  and  then  smilingly  made 
room  for  me  on  the  sofa  by  her  side. 

"I  thought  you  were  never  coming  up,"  she  said.    "I'm 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  75 

going  in  a  minute,  but  Lady  Maitland  tells  me  she  wants 
to  meet  Peter,  and  I  waited  to  find  out  if  you'd  come,  too. 
Any  day  next  week." 

"I  shall  be  delighted,"  I  said.  "Friday's  my  only  free 
night." 

"Good.  It  will  be  just  the  four  of  us.  Dear  Sir  Maurice 
is  such  a  bore,  poor  darling ;  I  really  can't  invite  him.  Now 
I  must  go.  Shall  we  say  somewhere  about  eight  ?" 

As  she  got  up,  I  looked  at  my  watch  and  found  that,  for 
all  the  excellence  of  the  dinner  and  the  time  that  we  were 
charged  with  spending  over  our  wine,  it  was  not  yet  ten. 
The  Maitlands  gave  no  hint  of  leaving,  nor  did  Mrs.  O'Rane 
vouchsafe  a  reason  for  her  early  departure.  I  saw  her 
shaking  hands  with  Grayle  and  heard  him  icily  asking  her 
to  wait  while  he  telephoned  for  a  cab.  With  equal  polite 
iciness  of  tone  she  assured  him  that  she  would  find  one  in 
the  Brompton  Road.  I  saw  her  smiling  mischievously  to 
herself,  as  she  walked  out  of  the  room;  Grayle's  smile,  on 
his  return,  was  mysterious,  and  I  surmised  that  another  trial 
of  strength  was  in  progress. 

As  we  stood  on  the  door-step  an  hour  later,  I  asked  him 
if  we  were  meeting  at  "The  Sanctuary"  the  following  week. 

"She  said  something  about  it,"  he  answered,  "but  I  shan't 
go." 

"You're  too  old  for  this  sort  of  nonsense,  Grayle,"  I  told 
him. 

"What  sort  of  nonsense  ?" 

But  before  I  could  answer,  a  taxi  crawled  invitingly  past 
the  door. 


I  have  never  been  able  to  cope  collectedly  with  a  verbal 
invitation  and  I  am  now  too  old  to  acquire  the  art.  Other- 
wise I  should  have  found  an  excuse  for  leaving  my  intimacy 
with  Mrs.  O'Rane  where  it  was.  I  had  dined  the  first  time 
at  "The  Sanctuary"  for  the  sake  of  her  husband ;  he  inter- 
ested me,  baffled  me,  refused  to  let  me  get  to  grips  with  him, 
and  I  did  not  intend  to  be  beaten.  His  wife,  I  felt,  for  all 


76  SONIA  MARRIED 

her  surface  fascination  and  vitality,  was  rather  a  waste  of 
time.  And  her  retinue  of  fashionable  actresses,  elderly  men 
about  town  and  Guards  subalterns  was  intellectually  too 
exotic  for  me.  I  determined  that  my  second  dinner  with 
her  should  be  my  last. 

The  door  was  unlocked,  when  I  arrived,  and  Beresford 
was  in  undisputed  possession  of  the  long,  warm  library, 
though  several  large  boxes  of  chocolates,  an  earthenware 
jar  of  expensive  cigarettes,  a  parcel  of  books  half  out  of 
their  paper  and  string  and  a  profusion  of  hot-house  flowers 
dispelled  any  rash  assumption  that  Mrs.  O'Rane  was  being 
neglected  by  her  admirers.  And,  whilst  I  waited  for  her, 
Beresford  told  me  that  the  original  party  of  four  had  multi- 
plied itself  by  three.  After  a  pause,  in  which  he  tried  not 
to  seem  self-conscious,  he  asked  whether  I  knew  the 
O'Ranes  well  and  rather  wistfully  volunteered  his  opinion 
that  there  was  no  real  sympathy  between  them  and  that  she 
was  unhappy  and  unappreciated. 

"I  sometimes  wonder  why  she  married  him,"  he  mur- 
mured. 

"Presumably  because  they  were  in  love  with  each  other," 
I  said. 

He  shook  his  head  with  judicial  gravity  and  an  air  of  pro- 
founder  knowledge  than  a  middle-aged,  unsympathetic 
man  like  me  could  hope  to  attain. 

"I  don't  think  they're  happy.  I  should  like  to  see  her 
happier,  she's  made  such  a  difference  in  my  life.  Women 
mean  something  more  to  me,  somehow,  since  I  met  her 
.  .  ."  he  confided,  with  a  boy's  curious  passion  to  discuss 
his  emotional  state  with  anyone  who  will  listen. 

"She  hasn't  yet  learned  the  difference  between  happiness 
and  pleasure,"  I  told  him. 

The  new  tempestuous  disorder  which  the  room  presented 
in  O'Rane's  absence — paper  and  string  and  half-opened  par- 
cels abandoned  when  a  more  pressing  call  made  itself  heard 
— struck  me  as  being  typical  of  the  woman.  And  she  was 
late  for  dinner,  which  I  consider  impolite  in  a  hostess. 

Beresford  must  have  seen  a  hint  of  disapproval  in  my 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  77 

face.  "Has  it  occurred  to  you  that  all  this  racket  is 
deliberate,  that  she  wants  to  live  in  the  present  .  .  .?" 

He  relapsed  into  silence  and  sat  supporting  his  lean,  long 
face  with  one  hand.  I  felt  Mrs.  O'Rane  had  civilised 
him  to  some  purpose  and  that,  unless  he  lapsed  from  civil- 
isation within  the  next  quarter  of  an  hour,  Lady  Maitland 
would  find  that  her  rebel-hunt  had  been  in  vain.  I  also 
felt  that  the  sooner  Mrs.  O'Rane  rejoined  her  husband, 
ceased  dining  with  Grayle,  going  to  the  theatre  with  young 
Guardsmen  and  giving  Beresford  the  idea  that  she  was 
lonely,  the  better  for  all  and  especially  for  her. 

Deganway  and  Pentyre,  who  evidently  knew  Mrs. 
O'Rane's  ways  better  than  I  did,  arrived  ten  minutes  later. 
We  were  still  awaiting  our  hostess,  when  Lady  Maitland 
sailed  in  and,  dispensing  with  introductions,  opened  fire  at  a 
distance  of  twenty  paces. 

"Darling  Sonia  not  dressed  yet?  But,  then,  no  one's  ever 
known  her  in  time  for  anything.  How  do  you  do,  Mr. 
Stornaway?  I  suppose  this  is  Mr.  Beresford?  Now,  Mr. 
Beresford,  I  want  to  have  a  long  talk  with  you;  I  hear 
you're  a  very  original  young  man  and  I  want  to  know  why 
you're  a  pro-German." 

Thus  encouraged,  Beresford  roused  himself  to  demon- 
strate the  difference  between  sympathy  with  German  atroci- 
ties and  antagonism  to  war  and  the  system  of  government 
which  made  it  possible.  I,  who  have  heard  him  for  a 
moment  haranguing  street  loafers  and  have  myself  engaged 
in  ding-dong  argument  with  him,  little  thought  to  see  him 
so  completely  routed  by  the  sonorous  enquiries  of  Lady 
Maitland,  who  put  a  question,  announced  parenthetically 
that  she  was  a  woman  with  no  nonsense  about  her  and 
flung  out  a  second  question  before  he  could  answer  the  first. 
Deganway  stood  polishing  his  eyeglass  and  murmuring 
sagaciously  "Yes!  Yes!  That's  what  our  good  pacifists 
never  condescend  to  explain."  Pentyre  lit  a  cigarette  and 
confessed  to  hunger.  Two  more  young  officers,  whose 
names  I  never  heard  and  whom  I  have  never  met  again, 
drifted  in  with  a  "Sonia  not  down  yet?"  and  also  lit  ciga- 


78  SONIA  MARRIED 

rettes.  I  was  glad  when  Mrs.  O'Rane  arrived  to  end 
Beresford's  agony. 

Without  a  word  of  apology  for  her  lateness,  she  fluttered 
like  a  butterfly  into  our  midst,  brushed  Lady  Maitland's 
cheek  with  her  lips  and  pirouetted  slowly  on  her  toes  like  a 
ballet-dancer. 

"How  d'you  like  my  new  dress,  children  ?"  she  enquired. 
"Say  you  do  or  you  don't,  but  please  don't  try  to  find  rea- 
sons, or  you're  sure  to  go  wrong.  Peter's  the  only  one  here 
who  knows  anything  about  colour,  Lady  Maitland,  and 
everything  I  wear  has  to  meet  with  his  approval." 

She  stopped  her  pirouetting  in  front  of  his  sofa  and 
stood,  panting  slightly  and  with  shining  eyes,  holding  her 
skirt  out  on  either  side  and  courtesying  low.  Beresford 
appraised  it  slowly,  his  head  on  one  side,  fingering  the  stuff 
and  taking  in  every  detail  from  the  gold  and  silver  band 
round  her  hair  to  the  silk  stockings  and  gilt  slippers.  An 
embarrassed  maid  awaited  her  opportunity  of  announcing 
dinner,  Mrs.  O'Rane  threw  her  head  back  and  smiled  at  me 
over  her  shoulder,  with  parted  lips. 

"Someone  appreciates  me,"  she  laughed.  For  the  first 
time  I  realised  what  her  young  and  not  very  sinful  vanity 
must  miss  by  never  being  able  to  hear  a  word  of  pride  or 
praise  from  her  husband.  Sonia  O'Rane  always  reminded 
me  of  a  child  who  cannot  build  a  castle  in  the  sand  without 
dragging  someone  by  the  wrist  to  come  and  admire  it.  "I 
don't  think  you  did  that  night  at  Colonel  Grayle's,"  she  said 
to  me.  "In  fact  it  was  very  forgiving  of  me  to  ask  you. 
I've  never  been  so  found  fault  with  by  anyone  except  David, 
and  he's  given  it  up  since  we  married.  I  sometimes  wonder 
whether  it  is  because  he  thinks  I'm  perfect  or  only  not 
worth  bothering  about  now  he's  got  me." 

"I  only  recall  saying  that  you  talked  a  great  deal  of  non- 
sense," I  put  in.  "I  stand  by  that." 

"Well,  that's  a  nice  thing  to  say  when  I'd  refused  three 
invitations  from  people  who  were  just  dying  to  hear  me  talk. 
However,  I  suppose  I'm  a  cultivated  taste." 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  79 

"And  you  only  invited  me  in  the  hope  of  making  me 
retract,"  I  added. 

"Let's  have  some  dinner,"  she  suggested,  avoiding  my 
challenge. 

She  spread  out  two  gleaming  white  arms  with  the  move- 
ment of  a  bird  taking  wing  and  waltzed  to  the  table,  calling 
to  us  over  her  shoulder  to  sort  ourselves  anyhow ;  the  order 
did  not  matter  as  there  were  ten  men  and  two  women.  As 
the  others  stood  back  for  me  to  make  my  choice,  I  put 
myself  on  her  left  with  Lady  Maitland  on  the  other  side. 

"When  do  you  go  to  Melton  ?"  I  asked  conscientiously,  as 
we  settled  to  our  places. 

She  pointed  a  ringer  at  Beresford. 

"I  can't  leave  my  ewe  lamb  yet,"  she  answered.  "D'you 
know,  last  night  I  was  up  with  him  until  nearly  three,  con- 
sidering which  I  think  I'm  looking  remarkably  fresh  to- 
night. .  .  .  Besides,  David  hasn't  asked  me  to  come.  .  .  ." 

Her  clear  and  slightly  over-emphatic  voice  travelled  dis- 
concertingly as  far  as  Lady  Maitland,  who  enquired  with 
some  surprise,  "Does  Mr.  Beresford  live  here?"  She  was 
answered  with  a  mischievous  nod.  "My  dear,  you  know  I 
always  say  right  out  whatever's  in  my  mind;  well,  I  don't 
think  you  ought  to  be  doing  that.  With  that  blessed  creature 
of  a  husband  here " 

"But  he  brought  Peter  here  and  kept  him  here  and  finally 
left  him  here — whether  I  liked  it  or  not,  Peter  dear.  Be- 
sides, darling  Lady  Maitland,  I  have  Mr.  Oakleigh  to 
chaperon  us,  and  George  drops  in  every  few  hours  to  see 
that  I'm  not  disgracing  his  precious  David.  .  .  .  George 
once  said  that  I  atoned  for  the  number  of  my  flirtations  by 
the  excellence  of  my  technique,"  she  went  on  irrelevantly. 
"I  think  he'd  just  fallen  out  of  love  with  me  and  pretended 
that  he  never  had  been  in  love  with  me  and  never  would  be. 
You  think  I'm  not  good  enough  for  David,  don't  you?"  she 
demanded  of  me.  "I  think  he  got  the  wife  he  deserved, 
and  he'll  tell  you  that's  the  finest  compliment  anyone  can 
pay  him." 


80  SONIA  MARRIED 

"I'll  ask  him,  if  I  remember.  I'm  going  to  Melton  next 
week.  Have  you  any  message  for  him?" 

She  deliberated  with  one  finger  pressed  to  her  lips. 

"Tell  him — exactly  what  you  think  of  me,"  she  suggested 
with  dancing  eyes.  "It'll  amuse  him  much  more  than  a 
message." 

"Are  you  going  down  to  him  this  term  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I'm  too  busy,  and  he  doesn't  want  me,  or  he'd  have  sent 
for  me  long  ago.  Not  that  I  should  have  gone,  of  course. 
.  .  ."  She  glanced  quickly  round  to  satisfy  herself  that 
the  others  were  absorbed  in  their  own  conversations;  then 
lowered  her  voice  and  laid  her  hand  on  my  sleeve.  "Mr. 
Stornaway,  you  do  agree  with  me  that  it's  absolute  rot  for 
him  to  be  there,  don't  you?  Old  Mr.  Oakleigh's  offered 
him  any  money  he  wants — again  and  again ;  I've  got  five 
hundred  a  year  from  father ;  he  could  wipe  out  what  he  calls 
his  debts  and  live  here  with  the  utmost  ease.  And  he  ought 
to  be  in  London,  he  ought  to  be  in  the  House ;  there  are  all 
sorts  of  jobs  that  he  could  get  in  the  City.  ...  If  you  want 
a  message,  tell  him  that  he  must  choose  Melton  or  me,"  she 
went  on  with  a  pout  and  a  rising  voice.  "If  he  hasn't 
chucked  Melton  by  Christmas,  I  shall  chuck  him.  Tell  him 
that  I  shall  elope  to  Sloane  Square — I  don't  believe  any- 
one's ever  eloped  to  Sloane  Square,  but  it's  the  handiest 
place  in  the  world;  even  the  Hounslow  and  Barking  non- 
stop trains  stop  there, — so  sweet  of  them,  I  always  think — 
I  shall  go  there  with  Peter  and  live  in  his  flat  and  star  in 
revue  where  I  shall  be  an  amazing  draw,  you  know;  and 
Colonel  Grayle  would  scowl  at  me  from  the  stage  box,  and, 
darling  Lady  Maitland,  you'd  boom  me  and  invite  fashion- 
able clergymen  to  meet  me  at  lunch,  and  George  would 
have  his  car  at  the  stage  door  to  take  me  home — I  don't 
know  that  I  shall  wait  till  Christmas." 

She  paused  for  lack  of  breath  and  looked  delightedly 
round  the  table.  My  expression,  I  imagine,  was  bored,  Lady 
Maitland's  perplexed;  only  poor  Beresford's  was  un- 
affectedly pained. 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  81 

"Mr.  Stornaway's  quite  right,"  Lady  Maitland  said,  when 
she  had  collected  herself.  "You  talk  a  great  deal  of  non- 
sense." 

"I  mean  it,  though." 

"Rubbish,  my  dear." 

Yet  I  believe  that  both  she  and  I  felt  a  current  of  dis- 
content running  underneath  the  froth  of  nonsense.  Per- 
haps we  shewed  it,  perhaps  Lady  Maitland  reconsidered  her 
judgement,  for,  when  Deganway  sat  down  to  play  rag-time 
after  dinner  and  Mrs.  O'Rane  kicked  the  rugs  aside  and 
began  dancing  with  Pentyre,  she  observed  at  impressive  in- 
tervals  

"Darling  Sonia  is  always  in  such  spirits".  .  .  "I  don't 
think  it's  quite  the  thing  for  a  young  man  like  that — quite 
good-looking,  you  know — to  be  living  here;  Mr.  O'Rane 
will  have  a  great  deal  to  answer  for,  if  there's  any  unpleas- 
antness, and  you  can  give  him  that  message  from  me!'  .  .  . 
"Tell  him  a  husband's  place  is  beside  his  wife.  .  .  .  But  he 
must  make  her  a  home  where  she  can  live.  I  forget  whether 
you  were  here  that  night — yes,  you  were !  Well,  Lady  Dain- 
ton's  quite  right.  .  .  .  Just  like  the  casual-ward  of  a  work- 
house. .  .  ."  "Of  course,  her  mother  brought  her  up 
atrociously".  .  .  "I  really  hope  that  she's  going  to  have  a 
family ;  it  would  just  make  the  difference." 

A  week  later  I  motored  to  Melton  for  the  Governors' 
meeting.  Town  and  school  alike  had  become  almost  un- 
recognisable since  my  last  visit  three  or  four  years  earlier. 
Leagues  of  huts,  miles  of  tents,  acres  of  pickets  stretched 
from  the  outskirts  of  Melton  to  the  fringe  of  Swanley 
Forest ;  the  drowsy  cathedral  town  was  alive  with  thunder- 
ing lorries,  and  the  billeting  officer's  handiwork  was  visible 
at  eight  windows  out  of  ten.  My  car  crawled  apprehensively 
through  the  crowded  streets  and  up  the  hill  to  a  school 
which  was  half  as  it  had  been  founded  three  hundred  years 
before,  half  as  it  had  been  converted  into  a  military  academy 
during  the  last  fifteen  months.  Great  Court  echoed  with 
the  clatter  and  scrape  of  hob-nailed  boots,  as  the  corps  fell 
in  and  marched  off  to  parade  on  the  practice-ground;  one 


82  SONIA  MARRIED 

group  of  signallers  on  the  steps  of  the  headmaster's  house 
waved  frantically  to  another  group  by  the  entrance  to  Great 
School,  and,  as  I  wandered  into  the  Cloisters  to  kill  time 
before  the  hour  of  our  meeting,  the  Green  was  filled  with 
pigmy  recruits,  learning  their  squad-drill  from  a  husky  but 
intensely  business-like  young  sergeant.  Only  a  handful 
of  obvious  weaklings  wore  the  old  conventional  straw  hat, 
grey  trousers  and  dark  jacket,  and  the  open  door  of  the 
Common  Room  at  Big  Gate  shewed  not  more  than  two- 
thirds  of  the  staff  in  cap  and  gown. 

"War  takes  on  a  new  horror  and  hopelessness,  when  you 
know  that  the  schools  of  France  and  Germany  present  the 
same  sight,"  I  said  to  Dr.  Burgess.  • 

Our  meeting  was  over,  and  he  was  conducting  me  round 
the  unaging  school  buildings  which  I  was  thenceforth  to 
hold  in  joint  trust.  The  company  drill  on  the  practice- 
ground  was  giving  way  to  a  final  parade,  and  we  watched 
four  hundred  young  soldiers  from  twelve  to  eighteen  march 
erect  and  with  set  faces  to  the  Armoury  and  from  the 
Armoury  to  Great  School  for  a  lantern  lecture  on  the 
Dardanelles  expedition.  A  couple  of  dozen  non-commis- 
sioned officers  had  fallen  out  and  were  awaiting  a  course 
in  map-reading  with  their  commanding  officer. 

'Thank  Heaven !  it  will  all  be  over  before  most  of  these 
boys  are  old  enough  to  go  out  and  stop  bullets,"  I  added. 

Dr.  Burgess  stroked  his  long  beard  and  shook  a  mourn- 
ful head.  "Some  were  yet  in  our  midst  when  the  appointed 
season  came,"  he  said,  pointing  to  an  already  long  Roll 
thumb-tacked  to  a  wire-covered  notice-board.  ''And  they 

that  have  returned "  He  sighed  deeply.  "David  O'Rane 

enjoins  me  to  say  that  he  is  within." 

We  shook  hands  at  the  door  of  a  bachelor  set  of  chambers 
in  the  Cloisters,  and  Dr.  Burgess  strode  back  to  his  house, 
murmuring  mournfully  into  his  beard.  I  knocked  and  en- 
tered to  find  O'Rane  seated — as  I  might  have  expected  to 
find  a  man  with  his  physical  dislike  for  chairs — in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  floor  with  the  big,  patient  head  of  his  Saint 
Bernard  on  his  knees.  Miss  Merryon  was  writing  at  a 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  83 

table  in  the  window,  and  a  low  wicker-work  couch  by  the 
fire  was  timidly  occupied  by  a  flushed  and  disputatious  male- 
factor. She  welcomed  me  by  name  to  give  the  cue  before 
making  an  excuse  to  withdraw.  I  apologised  to  O'Rane  for 
disturbing  him,  but  he  dismissed  the  boy  and  turned  with 
a  smile  and  sigh  of  relief. 

"We'd  both  had  enough  of  it,"  he  confessed.  "That  young 
man  thought  fit  to  play  a  practical  joke  on  Miss  Merryon, 
so  I've  been  taking  his  moral  education  in  hand,  appealing 
to  his  self-interest." 

He  felt  for  a  box  of  cigarettes  and  threw  them  to  me. 

"Well?"  I  said. 

"I  remember  getting  held  up  at  Bale  some  years  ago,"  he 
explained.  "I  was  on  my  way  home  from  Italy  and  I 
missed  the  eleven  o'clock  connection  to  Paris.  There  were 
crowds  of  us  there — some  on  our  way  back  from  Italy,  like 
me,  some  from  the  winter  sports  in  Switzerland — all  ages 
and  races,  on  every  kind  of  business  or  pleasure.  The  next 
train  to  Paris  left  the  following  day,  and  we  had  to  recon- 
cile ourselves  to  an  uncomfortable  night.  Well,  I've  tried 
so  many  varieties  of  discomfort  that  I'm  hardened  and 
philosophical ;  I  imagine  most  people  would  call  these  quar- 
ters uncomfortable,  but  they're  nothing  like  what  they  were 
before  Sonia  took  them  in  hand  last  summer." 

He  waved  proudly  at  a  pair  of  massive,  discoloured  vel- 
vet curtains,  a  bamboo  overmantel  and  occasional  table, 
wicker  chairs  half-buried  in  punt  cushions  and  a  thread- 
bare carpet  tattooed  by  generations  of  burning  matches.  I 
put  up  with  the  same  sort  of  thing  at  Trinity,  but  I  was 
then  nineteen  and  I  had  no  wife  to  accommodate.  Mrs. 
O'Rane,  I  imagine,  was  not  schooled  to  discomfort. 

"I  got  a  good  deal  of  amusement  and  interest  out  of 
watching  the  others,"  he  went  on.  "The  French  were  the 
worst — voluble,  excited,  indignant,  grabbing  the  best  places 
and  all  the  food  they  could  lay  hands  on  in  the  buffet — the 
way  they  always  behave  when  they're  travelling;  the  next 
worse  were  the  Germans — they  were  ruder  and  more  in- 
considerate than  the  French,  but  not  nearly  so  efficient.  The 


84  SONIA  MARRIED 

Americans  all  set  themselves  to  westernise  Europe  and 
started  getting  off  protests  by  cable  to  Paris,  ordering 
special  trains  and  booking  three  times  the  accommodation 
available  at  any  hotel.  The  English  were  bored,  aloof,  tak- 
ing themselves  and  their  troubles  very  seriously  and  refusing 
to  share  them  with  anyone.  Well,  when  the  last  bedroom 
had  been  snapped  up,  there  were  still  enough  of  us  be- 
nighted to  overcrowd  the  waiting-rooms  and  buffet,  we  were 
all  suffering  from  a  sense  of  grievance,  and  there  wasn't 
enough  food  to  go  round.  I  got  wedged  into  a  corner  with 
a  plate  of  meat  and  looked  on.  One  of  the  Englishmen  com- 
mented loudly  on  the  noise  that  a  German  made  in  eating 
soup.  The  comment  was  understood,  so  the  German  laid 
himself  out  to  shew  the  sort  of  noise  he  could  make  when 
he  tried.  The  Englishman  wrapped  himself  in  a  ferocious 
dignity,  finished  his  meal  and  lit  a  cigar,  sending  a  cloud 
of  smoke  in  the  face  of  one  of  the  Italians.  My  attention 
was  then  attracted  by  a  brawl  in  the  middle  of  the  buffet ; 
someone  had  imprudently  left  his  seat  to  forage  for  food, 
and  someone  else  had  promptly  bagged  it.  As  they  bickered 
and  gesticulated  and  finally  pushed  each  other  about  and 
the  onlookers  took  sides  and  joined  in,  I  said  to  myself, 
'Lord  God!  this  buffet  is  just  like  the  world,  and  these 
fools  are  behaving  just  as  we  all  behave,  and  we  should  all 
despise  and  laugh  at  ourselves  as  much  as  I'm  laughing  now, 
if  we  had  any  detachment,  self-criticism,  humour,  logic  or 
God's  common  sense/  " 

O'Rane's  black  eyes  lit  up  at  the  memory  of  the  scene. 

"I  was  telling  that  story  to  our  young  friend,"  he  con- 
tinued with  his  baffling  smile.  "Chivalry?  Nothing  doing. 
Moral  sanctions  and  first  causes  ?  Nothing  doing.  He  didn't 
believe  in  God,  he  wasn't  going  to  Hell,  if  he  misbehaved 
himself,  so  why  in  the  name  of  reason  should  he  bother? 
.  .  .  But  I  should  think  I  fixed  him  over  my  Bale 
story.  .  .  .  We  had  a  hideous  night  (it  was  too  cold  to 
go  and  sulk  outside — which  made  the  symbolism  more  per- 
fect; you  can't  sulk  outside  this  world,  unless  you're  pre- 
pared to  cut  your  throat)  ;  and  we  might  have  made  it  quite 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  85 

tolerable,  if  only  we'd  had  a  little  imagination  and  kindli- 
ness, if  we'd  struck  an  international  bargain  and  sur- 
rendered the  privilege  of  eating  soup  noisily  in  return  for 
immunity  from  cigar  smoke  in  the  eyes,  if  the  chairs  had 
only  been  given  to  the  women  and  old  men,  if  someone  had 
only  lent  a  hand  to  a  poor  boy  who  was  coughing  himself 
sick  with  asthma.  .  .  ."  He  whistled  reflectively  between 
his  teeth  for  a  moment.  "Life's  like  a  club,  sir ;  there  are 
rules  and  conventions  and  an  endless  mass  of  tradition — 
the  things  we  don't  do;  but  the  rules  were  made  so  long 
ago,  the  conventions  only  aim  at  an  irreducible  minimum. 
Even  so,  it's  better  than  treating  the  world  like  a  company 
trading  for  profit,  but  we  must  modernise  the  rules.  As 
you  know,  I  always  want  to  delete  'efficiency'  from  the 
English  language;  efficiency  in  the  Bale  buffet  would  have 
meant  that  an  organised  party  of  four,  back  to  back,  could 
have  downed  the  rest,  grabbed  all  the  food  and  cleared  the 
till. 

"Keep  your  temper.     Never  answer   (that  was  why  they  spat  and 

swore). 

"Don't  hit  first,  but  move  together  (there's  no  hurry)  to  the  door. 
"Back  to  back,  and  facing  outward  while  the  linguist  tells  'em  how — 
"  'Nous  sommes  allong  a  notre  batteau,  nous  ne  voulong  pas  un 

row.' 

"So  the  hard,  pent  rage  ate  inward,  till  some  idiot  went  too  far  .  .  . 
"  'Let  'em  have  it !'  and  they  had  it,  and  the  same  was  serious  war, 
"Fist,  umbrella,  cane,  decanter,  lamp  and  beer-mug,  chair  and  boot — 
"Till  behind  the  fleeing  legions  rose  the  long,  hoarse  yell  for  loot." 

O'Rane's  luminous  black  eyes  were  gleaming  with  mis- 
chief. Remembering  my  first  sight  of  him,  when  he  fought 
for  his  life  in  a  Vienna  cafe,  I  wondered  whether  any  wife, 
reinforced  by  any  mother,  could  curb  his  restless  yearning 
after  action,  were  it  blacking  the  eye  of  an  oppressor  or 
slinging  a  disabled  man  on  to  his  shoulders ....  For  all  his 
cosmopolitan  spirit  I  could  not  fit  him  into  the  Byzantine 
world  in  which  Lady  Dainton  had  brought  up  her  daughter 
nor  into  the  Merveilleuse  society  into  which  her  daughter 
had  gravitated. 

"It's — it's  really  only  a  very  big  club,"  he  murmured. 


86  SONIA  MARRIED 

"Full  of  most  undesirable  members/'  I  suggested.  ,The 
Bale  story,  I  felt,  would  be  wasted  on  Vincent  Grayle. 

"They're  not  acclimatised  yet.  Now,  you'd  open  the  door 
for  the  most  undesirable  member  of  the  Eclectics,  if  he 
had  a  game  leg,  yet  you  laugh  at  me  if  I  pick  up  an  in- 
jured man  in  the  street  and  carry  him  home  for  treatment. 
God's  name !  Where's  the  difference  ?  You're  not  ac- 
climatised yet,  you  see.  It's  to  your  interest,  too.  .  .  .  How 
is  Beresford,  by  the  way?  Sonia's  the  most  undutiful  wife 
in  the  way  of  writing ;  I  suppose  it's  natural  enough,  really ; 
she  doesn't  like  having  her  letters  to  me  read  by  anyone 
else." 

I  never  forgave  the  old  men  who  advised  and  hampered 
me,  pinning  me  to  a  career  for  which  I  was  unsuited  and 
quarrelling  with  me  when  I  broke  away  from  it.  In  my 
turn  I  have  tried  to  refrain  from  advising  and  hampering 
the  younger  generation — only  to  find  that  the  younger  gen- 
eration sometimes  makes  an  astonishing  fool  of  itself  and 
that  it  is  harder  and  harder  to  sit  silent  and  unintervening 
when  someone  whom  I  like  is  on  the  verge  of  falling  down- 
stairs in  the  dark  or  of  having  his  pocket  picked.  Com- 
menting on  the  fact  that  he  was  at  Melton,  while  his  wife 
was  in  London,  I  warned  O'Rane  that,  with  their  double 
portion  of  wilfulness  and  energy,  he  was  taking  unneces- 
sary risks  with  his  married  life. 

"I've  not  got  much  to  go  on,"  I  admitted,  "but  that  sup- 
per-party you  brought  me  to.  .  .  ." 

"That  was  exceptional,"  he  objected.  "And  they  were 
Sonia's  friends.  You  were  the  only  one  I  invited." 

I  reminded  him  of  Beresford,  Miss  Merryon  and  per- 
haps three  more  obvious  recipients  of  his  charity.  He  col- 
oured slightly  and  told  me  that  it  was  an  article  of  faith 
with  him  not  to  refuse  help  to  anyone  who  asked.  Then  I 
could  see  that  he  was  not  being  honest  with  himself,  for  he 
shifted  his  ground,  concentrated  on  Beresford  and  asserted 
that  his  wife  liked  him  to  be  in  the  house. 

"But  do  you  think  he  ought  to  be  there?"  I  asked,  fol- 
lowing him  on  to  the  ground  which  he  had  chosen.  "They're 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  87 

both  young,  attractive;  your  wife's  a  very  fascinating  and 
beautiful  woman.  She  can  take  care  of  herself,  of  course. 
...  It  was  in  fact  commented  on  at  dinner  the  other 
night." 

O'Rane  wrinkled  his  nose  in  dissatisfaction. 

"He's  company  for  Sonia,"  he  said  weakly. 

"You'd  be  company  for  her,  if  she  came  here  or  you  went 
to  live  in  London.  Much  better  company,  too,"  I  added. 

My  tone  may  have  betrayed  more  than  I  intended  to  con- 
vey, for  O'Rane  laughed. 

"You  don't  like  her  friends  ?  /  don't  care  a  great  lot  for 
some  of  them,  but  you  must  remember  that  she  gave  up  a 
good  deal  to  marry  me — a  very  full  life — and  I  can't  give 
her  much.  What  I  can  give  her  is  the  freest  possible  hand. 
That's  why  I  haven't  pressed  her  to  come  down  here,  though, 
God  knows,  it's  lonely  enough  without  her.  By  Easter,  if 
not  Christmas " 

"Won't  you  have  given  this  up  by  Christmas  ?"  I  asked. 

His  face  grew  tired  and  perplexed,  and  he  ran  his  fingers 
impatiently  through  his  hair. 

"I  don't  know.  I  owe  the  devil  of  a  lot  of  money;  and 
I  should  be  damned  body  and  soul,  if  I  lived  on  charity 
when  I  could  earn  my  own  livelihood.  We'll  discuss  it  at 
Christmas.  In  the  meantime,  can  you  stay  and  dine  with  me 
in  Common  Room?" 

His  invitation  was  a  reminder  that  I  had  already  stayed 
perilously  long,  if  I  was  to  get  back  to  London  in  time  for 
a  dinner  engagement. 

"See  me  to  my  car,"  I  said,  as  I  put  on  my  coat.  "Look 
here,  don't  think  I'm  a  mere  busybody.  You  and  your  wife 
are  such  a  pair  of  children  that  you  mustn't  mind  a  man 
twice  your  age  telling  you,  if  he  thinks  you're  behaving  fool- 
ishly. I  strongly  advise  you  to  throw  this  over  at  Christ- 
mas. Now  not  another  word." 

O'Rane  walked  in  silence  through  the  Cloisters  with  one 
hand  on  the  Saint  Bernard's  collar.  As  we  came  into  Great 
Court,  he  stopped  abruptly. 

"Look  here,  sir;  understand  one  thing,"  he  began.     "If 


88  SONIA  MARRIED 

you  think  I  mind  or  that  I'm  not  grateful  to  you  for  speak- 
ing like  this,  I  shall  never  forgive  you.  But  you  say  Sonia's 
to  be  trusted  to  take  care  of  herself.  That's  enough.  If 

she  wasn't "  He  shrugged  his  shoulders — "she  wouldn't 

be  worth  keeping.  If  she  fell  in  love  with — who  shall  we 
say? — Beresford  and  ran  away  with  him,  in  God's  name 
d'you  think  I  should  want  to  stop  her?  I  admit  I've  only 
been  married  three  months,  but  to  me  love's  a  thing  of  per- 
fect, implicit  trust.  This  is  between  ourselves,  but  last  week 
George  Oakleigh  came  down  for  Founder's  Day  and 
dropped  a  hint  that  Sonia  was  lunching  and  dining  out  too 
much  with — well,  I  suppose  there's  no  harm  in  saying  it — 
Grayle.  As  with  you,  someone  had  commented  on  it  at 
dinner.  I'm  afraid  I  couldn't  pump  up  the  slightest  indig- 
nation. Grayle's  rather  in  love  with  her.  So's  Beresford. 
So's  that  squeaky  tame-cat,  Deganway,  of  the  Foreign 
Office.  So's  one  of  my  boys  here — George's  cousin  Laurie, 
who  firmly  believes  that  he  brought  me  up  to  the  scratch 
and  made  me  propose — rather  against  my  will.  So's  young 
Pentyre,  so's  half  the  Brigade.  If  I  wanted  to  be  jealous, 
sir,  I'm  afraid  I  shouldn't  have  time.  As  it  is,  I'm  so  proud 
of  Sonia  that  I  glory  in  seeing  other  people  proud  of  her, 
loving  her.  ...  As  for  stray  comments  at  dinner — I  don't 
say  it's  right  and  I  don't  say  it's  wrong,  but  she  belongs  to 
a  very  modern  school  which  goes  its  own  way  without  re- 
garding stray  comments  at  dinner.  But  so  long  as  we  agree 
that  she's  to  be  trusted ?" 

We  had  reached  Big  Gate,  and  he  held  out  his  hand  to 
me  with  the  mischievous  smile  which  I  was  beginning  to 
know  so  well  and  which  always  rilled  me  with  a  sense  of 
helplessness.  As  I  looked  at  him  with  the  October  wind 
blowing  through  his  black  hair,  I  reflected  that  he  must 
think  me  very  old-fashioned  to  be  surprised  when  a  three- 
month-old  wife  boasted  of  the  men  who  were  in  love  with 
her  and  her  husband  derived  a  reflected  happiness  from  her 
successes. 

Driving  back  to  London  I  felt  that  I  was  escaping  mile  by 
mile  from  a  bewildering  world  of  serious  make-believe. 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  89 


My  engagement  that  night  was  to  dine  with  Harry  Mere- 
field  and  to  discuss  something  which,  he  said,  he  could  ex- 
plain better  by  word  of  mouth  than  in  a  letter.  I  was 
intrigued  by  the  invitation,  because  Merefield  at  this  time 
was  of  considerable  account  in  the  Foreign  Office.  We 
dined  at  his  Club,  and,  as  the  only  other  person  present  was 
Barton,  who  had  thrown  up  his  work  at  Cambridge  twelve 
months  before  and  was  now  my  official  chief  in  the  Treas- 
ury, I  divined  that  they  contemplated  a  deal  in  my  person. 
The  preliminaries  were  already  settled,  and,  as  we  drank 
our  sherry,  Merefield  confided  that  the  Foreign  Office 
wanted  me  to  go  out  to  America  ostensibly  to  raise  money 
for  the  War  Charities  Fund,  in  reality  to  carry  on  a  cam- 
paign of  propaganda ;  my  knowledge  of  country  and  people 
would  be  invaluable  and  our  relations  had  reached  a  point 
where  we  could  no  longer  afford  to  do  nothing.  Would  I 
think  over  the  proposal  ? 

"If  this  Press  agitation  goes  on  .  .  ."he  began  grimly 
and  lapsed  into  eloquent  silence. 

I  must  confess  that  I  have  never  been  able  to  under- 
stand what  function  Ministers  proposed  that  the  Press 
should  fulfil ;  they  set  up  a  Bureau  to  control  the  supply  of 
news  and  occasionally  to  restrain  editorial  comment,  but 
their  interest  seemed  to  die  when  once  the  War  Office  had 
secured  that  direct  military  information  was  not  to  be  dis- 
closed and  that  discussions  and  attacks  should  not  take 
place  round  the  head  of  this  or  that  commander.  Valiantly 
they  feared  nothing,  despondently  they  hoped  for  nothing 
from  a  somewhat  despised  organisation  which,  despite  their 
contempt,  believed  in  its  own  power  and  was  capable  daily 
of  placing  the  same  view  before  every  man  and  woman  in 
the  country  until  a  vague  but  obstinate  conviction  arose 
that  "there  must  be  something  in  it."  The  Press  with  a 
little  diplomatic  flattery,  might  have  become  the  handmaid 
of  the  Government;  with  promptitude  and  vigour  it  could 
have  been  emasculated  to  the  semblance  of  an  official  bul- 


90  SONIA  MARRIED 

letin.  Instead,  Ministers  treated  it  like  an  intrusive  wasp, 
slapping  at  it  with  ineffectual  petulance,  ducking  their  heads 
and  running  away  when  it  was  angered,  until  Sir  John 
Woburn  and  half  a  dozen  of  his  fellows  were  left  to  sug- 
gest, condemn,  support  and  attack,  to  push  favourite  min- 
isters and  policies,  to  be  inspired  by  those  same  ministers 
and  to  indulge  in  superficial  criticism  and  the  promulgation 
of  half-truths  which  were  harder  to  overtake  and  refute 
than  a  substantial,  well-defined  lie.  Though  never  a  Minis- 
ter, I  am  afraid  that  I  must  accept  my  share  of  responsi- 
bility, for,  when  the  House  of  Commons  abrogated  its 
duty  of  criticism,  reform  or  remedy  became  possible  only 
by  a  Press  campaign. 

"I  don't  give  Woburn  credit  for  excessive  modesty,"  said 
Merefield,  "but  it  never  occurs  to  him  that  his  vile  rags 
can  have  any  effect  abroad.  Yet,  if  you  say  a  thing  often 
enough,  it  gets  repeated.  The  French  and  the  Russians  are 
now  beginning  to  ask  what  England's  doing,  what  the 
Navy's  thinking  about,  and  why  we  don't  do  more.  .  .  . 
Wolff's  Bureau  itself  couldn't  have  a  greater  success  than 
Woburn  in  making  the  French  believe  that  we're  sacri- 
ficing them  to  preserve  our  own  trade.  We've  given  America 
about  as  much  ragging  as  she'll  stand,  and  I  want  you  to 
sweeten  things.  You  do  know  the  country." 

I  know  enough  of  America  to  feel  that  she  has  always 
suffered,  as  Ireland  suffers,  from  the  characteristically  Eng- 
lish belief  that  because  two  people  speak  a  similar  language 
they  must  have  an  identic  soul  and  that  the  Americans  are  a 
homogeneous  Saxon  race,  estranged  indeed  from  an  equally 
homogeneous  parent  stock  by  a  certain  insolent  inde- 
pendence imparted  by  General  Washington  to  his  turbulent 
followers,  but  Saxon  in  orientation  and  sympathy,  essen- 
tially sound  at  heart.  When  Merefield  asked  me  to  go  out, 
I  knew  that  he  could  have  found  others  better  qualified  for 
the  work,  but  at  least  I  was  a  man  who  never  expected  to 
find  unanimity  on  the  issues  of  European  peace  and  war 
in  New  England,  purest  in  Saxon  blood  and  tradition,  sensi- 
tive to  every  European  repercussion  and  receptive  of  every 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  91 

thought-wave  borne  across  the  Atlantic;  in  the  Southern 
States,  with  their  political  concentration  on  the  negro  with- 
in their  gates  and  the  Mexican  without ;  in  the  North-West, 
watchful  of  Canadian  encroachments;  in  the  Far  West, 
with  its  eyes  set  on  a  Japanese  peril ;  in  the  Middle  West, 
where  the  farmer  of  Illinois  and  Iowa  lives  and  dies  with- 
out coming  nearer  than  at  a  thousand  miles'  distance  to 
Pacific  or  Atlantic ;  in  scattered,  unassimilated  lumps  of  dis- 
affected Ireland  or  duly  prepared  Germany. 

"They're  getting  tired  of  hearing  what  'America*  ought 
to  do,"  Merefield  continued.  "People  here  won't  see  that 
there  is  no  American  people  yet,  hardly  an  American  idea, 
only  the  vaguest  groping  after  an  American  ideal.  They've 
been  snapping  and  snarling  at  Wilson  over  Belgium,  over  the 
'Lusitania',  over  his  notes — as  if  he  had  a  mixed  population 
of  a  hundred  and  ten  millions  in  his  pocket!  I  want  you  to 
explain  that  it's  only  our  fun.  After  all,  they've  got  their 
own  Woburns ;  they'll  understand." 

My  American  friends  were  too  numerous  to  allow  of  my 
accepting  Merefield's  facile  diagnosis  and  treatment.  I 
knew  then,  as  I  had  confirmed  later,  that  the  commonest 
feeling  in  the  American  mind  was  a  quiet  but  affronted 
indignation  at  British  ingratitude.  Of  the  organisations,  the 
funds  and  charities,  the  work  of  humanity  and  succour  that 
had  begun  in  America  from  the  first  day  of  war,  not  a 
word  was  said  in  our  press  or  speeches ;  over  the  hardships 
and  inconveniences  involved  by  our  blockade,  over  the  sense 
of  grievance  occasioned  by  our  censorship  of  mails  and 
cables,  no  sympathy  was  expressed  or  felt.  When  Russia 
was  dependent  on  American  munitions,  when  English  credit 
in  America  was  the  hope  and  salvation  of  allied  finance,  we 
could  find  no  more  gracious  form  of  acknowledgement  than 
a  sneer  at  a  so-called  proud  nation  which  let  its  sons  and 
daughters  drown  without  protest  and  shirked  the  sacrifices 
of  war  in  order  to  steal  trade,  to  sell  the  means  of  destruc- 
tion to  others  and  to  increase  the  ever-mounting  accumula- 
tion of  wealth.  I  am  too  old  and  cosmopolitan  to  have  any 
right  to  be  surprised,  yet  I  always  am  in  fact  surprised  by 


92  SONIA  MARRIED 

my  countrymen's  abysmal  want  of  imagination  and  inter- 
national courtesy.  I  approached  my  mission  with  the  most 
unfeigned  reluctance. 

Merefield  left  me  to  think  over  his  suggestion  undis- 
turbed, and  before  saying  good-night  I  told  him  that,  if 
he  would  give  me  a  few  weeks  to  order  my  affairs,  I  would 
gladly  go  for  as  long  a  time  as  the  Foreign  Office  chose  to 
keep  me.  Yolande  and  her  husband  had  attended  to  my 
domestic  requirements  so  admirably  during  my  absence  in 
Austria  that  I  had  no  hesitation  in  entrusting  them  to  her 
again  and  in  surrendering  the  rest  of  my  house  for  use 
as  an  office.  My  departmental  work  was  gradually  trans- 
ferred to  other  shoulders,  though  at  one  moment  I  feared 
that  the  department  itself  was  going  to  be  extinguished. 
After  dissipating  numberless  troops  on  secondary  opera- 
tions in  every  corner  of  the  world  except  the  western  front, 
the  Government  found  itself  short  of  reinforcements  for 
the  great  offensive  which  was  to  break  the  German  line 
in  the  spring  of  1916.  The  flow  of  volunteers  was  drying 
up,  and  I  heard  much  excited  gossip  about  an  immediate 
measure  of  conscription.  Grayle,  I  remembered,  was  very 
active  and  tried  to  commit  me  to  an  organised  attack  on 
the  Government;  as,  however,  even  he  admitted  that  no 
one  but  the  Prime  Minister  could  carry  a  compulsory  ser- 
vice bill,  I  told  him  that  he  must  be  content  with  anything 
he  could  get.  My  department,  or  the  younger  section  of  it, 
was  saved  by  a  comic-opera  compromise  whereby  volun- 
teers were  encouraged  to  enlist  on  pain  of  being  conscribed, 
if  they  held  back.  To  introduce  a  democratic  note  and 
make  the  figures  imposing,  all  my  youngsters  were  invited  to 
attest;  to  ensure  that  the  official  machine  continued  in  be- 
ing, it  was  arranged  that  no  government  servant  should 
be  called  to  the  colours  without  the  leave  of  his  depart- 
mental head.  So,  after  a  week's  flutter,  I  was  at  liberty 
to  go. 

There  was  no  secret  about  the  fact  of  my  mission,  and 
Bertrand  Oakleigh  arranged  a  little  dinner  at  the  House 
to  wish  me  good-speed.  I  walked  back  with  him  to  his 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  93 

rooms  at  "The  Sanctuary"  and  looked  into  the  library  to  see 
if  there  was  anyone  about.  George  was  asleep  on  a  sofa,  but 
otherwise  the  room  was  deserted. 

"I'm  waiting  to  see  Sonia,"  he  yawned,  as  I  came  in. 
"With  any  luck  she's  out  at  a  dance  and  won't  be  back  till 
about  four.  I've  induced  Beresford  to  clear  out,  but  I 
don't  want  her  to  be  frightened  or  wonder  where  he  is." 

He  broke  off  to  yawn  again.  I  asked  him  how  he  had 
contrived  the  eviction,  and  the  yawn  shortened  into  a  smile. 

"I  didn't  put  it  on  the  ground  that  he  was  falling  in  love 
with  Sonia,"  he  said,  "because  I  suppose  he  knows  that ;  I 
just  told  him  that — a  comment  had  been  made.  .  .  .  D'you 
know,  after  that  dinner,  dear  Lady  Maitland  called  on  me  at 
ten  next  morning  at  the  Admiralty,  telling  me  to  use  my 
influence?  And  I  may  say  that  when  Lady  Maitland  tells 
me  to  do  a  thing  I  do  it.  Well,  Beresford  is  in  the  pulpy 
state  where  he'd  cut  his  throat  if  he  could  protect  Sonia's 
reputation  in  any  way,  little  knowing  the  evergreen  hardi- 
ness of  that  same  reputation,  and  he  went  off  to  his  own 
flat.  Sonia  will  probably  be  very  indignant  with  me  this 
evening,  but  she's  made  her  Peter  much  too  lamb-like  to 
be  seriously  interested  in  him  any  longer.  Anyway,  if  she 
isn't  indignant  with  me  for  one  thing,  she'll  be  indignant 
for  another.  And  I  seem  to  survive  it  comfortably.  So 
that  danger's  over,  though  as  a  matter  of  fact  there  never 
was  any  danger.  ..."  He  filled  a  pipe  and  lurched  wearily 
round  the  room  in  search  of  matches.  "The  only  danger 
for  Sonia  is  from  a  man  who'll  bully  her,"  he  drawled. 
"When  she  was  engaged  to  Jim  Loring,  he  behaved  like  an 
extra  lady's  maid;  she  might  still  be  blowing  hot  and  cold 
with  Raney,  if  he  hadn't  shewn  her  very  definitely  who  had 
the  stronger  will.  It  was  at  the  very  beginning  of  the  war, 
and  he  was  quite  ruthless.  .  .  .  Last  time  he  saw  her,  poor 
old  Raney.  ..." 

"You  know  them  both  pretty  well,  don't  you?"  I  asked. 

"Yes.  And  the  next  question  is,  why  did  they  marry  ?  I 
can't  answer  that.  They  were  in  love,  but  that's  more  a 


94  SONIA  MARRIED 

reason  than  an  excuse.  .  .  .  Yes,  I've  known  'em  both  for 
years.  And  for  years  I've  tried  to  restrain  Sonia's  destiny 
when  I  saw  it  going  to  her  head.  Oh,  by  the  way,  Beres- 
ford's  by  no  means  my  only  success.  I  don't  know  whether 
Grayle's  a  friend  of  yours,  but  I  dislike  him — always  did, 
when  I  was  in  the  House  with  him — and  the  other  day  I 
thought  it  was  time  to  interfere;  you  couldn't  stir  a  yard 
without  running  into  them.  This  time  I  didn't  bother  about 
approaching  the  man — that  would  have  been  too  great  a 
waste  of  time, — but  I  talked  to  Sonia  until  she  promised 
never  to  have  Grayle  inside  the  house  again  and  never  to 
meet  him  of  malice  aforethought.  Which  you  will  admit  is  a 
fairly  comprehensive  victory." 

He  looked  at  his  watch  and  walked  impatiently  to  the 
writing-table. 

"Mrs.  O'Rane  seems  to  be  a  whole-time  job,"  I  com- 
mented. 

"She's  all  that,"  he  grunted.  "Mark  you,  I'm  fond  of 
her  in  spite  of  herself.  .  .  .  But  I'm  fonder  of  Raney,  and 
the  pair  of  them  seem  steering  for  disaster.  ...  I  don't 
know.  I  may  be  all  wrong.  I'm  a  bachelor  and  I've  never 
had  to  humour  a  woman.  .  .  .  Here,  I've  finished  this. 
I'll  walk  with  you  as  far  as  the  club." 

As  I  latched  the  door  behind  me,  I  asked  what  he  thought 
of  the  life  which  O'Rane  had  decreed  for  "The  Sanctuary." 
He  smiled  before  answering. 

"If  you'd  known  Raney  as  long  as  I  have,  it  would  be 
just  the  thing  you'd  expect  of  him — all  taken  au  grand 
s&rieux,  too,  of  course.  As  for  Sonia,  she'd  consent  to 
sleep  in  a  doss-house,  if  she  were  doing  it  for  the  first 
time — a  new  experience,  you  know.  She  was  prepared  to 
put  up  with  anything,  I  fancy,  to  get  away  from  home  and 
have  a  house  of  her  own;  and  she'd  have  cheerfully  ac- 
cepted half  a  room  in  a  workman's  cottage  when  she  mar- 
ried Raney.  After  four  or  five  months  of  it,  I  should 
think  it's  beginning  to  pall;  the  caravanserai  life  wouldn't 
suit  her  for  twenty-four  hours  in  the  day,  she  likes  it  for 


THE  OPEN  DOOR  95 

an  hour  after  dinner — for  more  new  experiences.  I  think, 
I  think  you'll  find  Raney  will  have  to  drop  it.  ...  But  I 
don't  know.  .  .  .  There  are  five  things  that  are  too  hard 
for  me,  and  the  way  of  a  maid  with  a  man  is  the  hardest 
of  them  all." 


CHAPTER  THREE 


SONIA    O  RANE 

'Vanity  induces  men,  more  than  reason,  to  act  against  inclination.' 
THE  DUKE  DE  LA  ROCHEFOUCALD  :     Maxims. 


I  SAILED  for  America  in  December,  1915,  on  perhaps  the 
most  difficult  mission  that  I  have  ever  undertaken.  It  was 
not  expected,  of  course,  that  the  United  States  would  enter 
the  war  against  us  or  upset  the  diplomatic  equilibrium  in 
our  favour  without  provocation  and  until  the  result  of  the 
elections  had  been  seen.  I  went,  as  I  have  suggested,  to 
counteract  the  German  propaganda,  which  sought  to  make 
all  at  least  equally  responsible  for  the  war,  and  also  to 
remove  some  part  of  the  bad  impression  which  had  been 
left  by  our  more  unbridled  journalists  and  our  less  imagina- 
tive statesmen.  The  moral  approbation  of  America  was 
too  precious  an  asset  to  fritter  away,  and  the  purchase  of 
material  depended  on  the  goodwill  of  American  financiers, 
the  supply  of  munitions  could  be  stopped  as  a  diplomatic 
reprisal. 

It  was  perhaps  unfortunate  that  my  arrival  coincided  with 
an  outburst  of  new  interest  in  the  Blockade,  ending  with 
the  creation  of  a  Blockade  Ministry  and  the  appointment 
of  a  Blockade  Minister.  (Harry  Merefield  used  to  shake 
his  head  over  any  new  interest  in  the  Blockade.  "We  al- 
ways say  that  Germany  must  be  defeated  in  the  field,  and 
I'm  apprehensive  when  the  soldiers  tell  me  that  they're 
counting  on  our  starving  the  brutes  out.")  I  was  asked, 
too,  at  more  than  one  meeting  how  the  Government  of  Great 
Britain  reconciled  its  passionate  crusade  in  defence  of  small 

96 


SONIA  O'RANE  97 

nationalities  with  its  no  less  passionate  refusal  to  allow  the 
Irish  to  control  their  own  destinies.  The  dreary  tale  of  the 
unchecked  Ulster  gun-running  and  the  appeal  to  Germany 
was  rehearsed  for  my  benefit;  and  my  more  law-abiding 
Irish  audiences  generated  considerable  heat  over  the  pres- 
ence of  "the  rebel  Carson"  in  the  Cabinet. 

But,  if  I  found  the  work  difficult,  it  gave  me  a  respite 
from  England,  where  I  felt  that  I  had  been  watching  the 
machine  at  too  close  quarters.  Since  the  day  when  I  helped 
George  Oakleigh  to  divide  the  world  and  secure  a  lasting 
peace,  our  nerves  had  worn  thin;  we  devoted  too  much 
time  to  seeing  that  other  people  went  promptly  about  their 
duties;  and  a  deadly  personal  bitterness — embodied  for 
me  in  Grayle,  though  I  do  not  single  him  out  for  attack — 
poisoned  our  confidence  in  our  own  leaders.  I  was  glad  to 
feel  the  icy  wind  of  the  Atlantic  lashing  my  face,  blowing 
the  cobwebs  from  my  brain  and  the  sour  taste  from  my 
mouth,  as  we  rounded  the  last  Irish  headland. 

During  the  week  that  I  had  to  myself  on  board,  sailing 
without  lights  and  zig-zagging  out  of  reach  of  submarines,  I 
put  together  the  notes  for  some  of  my  speeches.  It  was 
extraordinarily  difficult  to  say  anything  definite.  After 
eighteen  months  of  hostilities  and  mid- way  through  a  sec- 
ond winter,  there  was  a  confident  expectation  that  the  great 
spring  offensive  would  end  the  war.  The  Austrian  losses 
were  known  to  be  gigantic,  and  it  was  believed  that  the  old 
emperor  was  flirting  with  peace ;  Germany  was  starving,  and 
the  moral  of  the  German  army  had  notoriously  broken. 
(Our  avowedly  humorous  publications  demonstrated  that 
a  British  soldier  had  still  only  to  call  "Waiter!"  or  to  ex- 
hibit a  sausage  at  the  end  of  his  bayonet  to  have  a  swarm 
of  German  prisoners  on  their  knees  to  him.) 

Yet,  beneath  all  our  confidence  ran  a  chilling  current  of 
doubt.  The  spring  offensive  would  be  launched  in  Belgium 
or  France,  but  the  clubs  and  dinner  tables,  the  military  cor- 
respondents— it  was  whispered,  the  Cabinet  itself — were  di- 
vided into  "westerners"  and  "easterners." 

"If  we  could  hold  up  the  Huns  at  Ypres,"  George  had 


98  SONIA  MARRIED 

said  to  me  gloomily  on  my  last  day  in  England,  "they  can 
hold  us  up  equally  well,  when  the  proportion  of  fighting 
strength  has  been  reversed.  I  hoped  in  the  early  days  of 
the  Dardanelles  that  we  were  going  to  knock  away  the 
buttresses  and  bring  down  the  whole  structure  of  the  Central 
Empires,  detach  Turkey  and  Bulgaria,  you  know,  carve  a 
way  into  the  Hungarian  plains.  Now  I'm  by  no  means  com- 
fortable. .  .  ." 

George,  with  many  others,  was  not  destined  to  think  of 
the  Dardanelles  with  an  easy  mind  until  news  reached.the 
Eclectic  Club  one  day  at  luncheon  that  Gallipoli  had  been 
miraculously  evacuated,  and  a  sigh  of  relief  rose  over  Lon- 
don, to  be  followed  by  a  feeling  that,  though  we  had  es- 
caped once,  our  luck  might  desert  us  at  the  second  tempting. 
More  and  more  I  was  hearing  the  criticism  that  there  were 
too  many  amateur  strategists  in  the  Cabinet  with  no  one  to 
check  the  careless  inspiration  which  led  them  to  fling  their 
armies  to  Sulva  Bay  or  Salonica,  while  the  thinning  re- 
serves on  the  western  front  impelled  the  Government  inch 
by  reluctant  inch  to  conscription. 

And  every  time  that  the  Blockade  bit  deeper  into  the  puffy 
German  flesh,  every  time  that  the  mark  exchange  fell,  every 
time  that  the  numbers  of  enemy  killed,  wounded,  missing 
and  prisoners  satisfied  our  military  ready-reckoners  that  the 
last  reserves  were  under  fire  and  that  the  inevitable  col- 
lapse would  ring  and  echo  through  the  world  within  so 
many  days  or  weeks,  the  enemy  retaliated  with  the  wriggle 
of  a  Japanese  wrestler,  flung  his  adversary  away  and  sur- 
mounted him.  Servia  had  been  overrun  by  the  effete, 
vanquished  Austrians  in  October,  Montenegro  followed  in 
January ;  we  had  sent  troops  to  Gallipoli,  because  the  west- 
ern front  was  impregnable,  we  had  withdrawn  them  be- 
cause the  eastern  front  was  no  less  impregnable.  Amateur 
strategy  or  political  intrigue  was  now  mysteriously  dissipat- 
ing more  troops  in  Greece,  and  I  was  required  later  to 
square  the  allied  landing  in  Salonica  with  the  allied  re- 
sistance to  the  German  incursion  into  Belgium.  To  say 
that  King  Constantine  had  defaulted  on  his  treaty  obliga- 


SONIA  O'RANE  99 

tions  to  Servia  was  venturesome  but  inadequate,  for  the 
terms  of  the  treaty  were  unknown;  it  was  common  knowl- 
edge, on  the  other  hand,  that  Great  Britain  had  guaranteed 
the  Greek  constitution,  by  which  foreign  troops  might  only 
land  at  the  invitation  of  king  and  parliament. 

The  public  temper  in  England  led  me  to  expect  one 
thing,  crystallised  by  Vincent  Grayle  in  a  bet  that,  if  we 
had  not  broken  the  German  line  by  September,  the  Gov- 
ernment and  the  Higher  Command  would  have  passed  into 
ineffectual  history. 

"It's  their  last  chance,"  were  his  parting  words  to  me. 
"After  all,  you  find  a  leak  in  your  cistern,  you  get  a 
plumber ;  if  he  can't  mend  it,  God's  truth,  you  get  another 
plumber.  You're  likely  to  find  considerable  changes  by 
the  time  you  get  back." 

I  think  it  was  the  taste  left  in  my  mouth  by  Vincent 
Grayle  that  I  was  most  glad  to  have  blown  away  by  the 
north-east  Atlantic  wind. 

I  landed  in  New  York  to  find  that  I  had  lost  one  false 
perspective  of  the  war  to  acquire  another.  In  the  eastern 
states  there  was  indeed  an  "American  Rights"  party,  flam- 
ingly  incensed  that  the  President  had  not  broken  off  diplo- 
matic relations  on  the  sinking  of  the  "Lusitania,"  but  as 
unprepared  as  I  had  been  on  my  return  to  England  after  a 
year  of  war  for  the  resolution  and  effort,  the  suffering  and 
bereavement,  the  social  upheaval  and  snapping  nerves  which 
I  had  met.  New  England,  to  my  pity,  talked  of  participa- 
tion and  still  fancied,  as  we  had  once  done,  that  it  would 
be  someone  else's  son  or  brother,  someone  of  academic 
interest,  who  would  appear  day  after  day  in  the  casualty 
lists.  Yet  what  else  could  I  expect?  As  I  walked  up  and 
down  the  un familiarly  lighted  streets  to  see  men  still  em- 
ployed on  work  which  was  being  done  by  women  in  Eng- 
land, as  I  met  abundance  on  every  hand  and  heard  of  war 
as  an  intellectual  conception  in  the  middle  distance,  I  had 
only  to  shut  my  eyes  and  imagine  that  it  was  a  fantastic 
nightmare  of  my  own. 

For  three  months  I  spoke  and  wrote ;  for  three  months, 


ioo  SONIA  MARRIED 

as  I  was  flung  from  end  to  end  of  the  continent  on  journeys 
of  incredible  length  and  intolerable  discomfort,  interview- 
ers boarded  my  train  and  invaded  my  car.  The  daily  news 
of  the  war  had  long  been  relegated  to  some  corner  of  a 
back  page,  and  my  interviewers  were  clamorous  as  children 
to  be  told  a  story. 

I  am  content  to  be  judged  by  results ;  in  the  south  there 
were  men  who  responded  to  my  eloquence  by  crossing  the 
border  and  enlisting  in  a  Canadian  regiment,  and  the  War 
Charities  Fund  has  its  record  of  the  subscriptions  which  I 
collected.  My  audiences  reacted  on  me  until  I  am  afraid 
I  came  to  idealise  unpardonably.  I  remember  describing 
to  a  Boston  audience  the  spontaneous  uprising  of  England 
as  I  had  found  it  after  a  year  abroad;  I  remember,  too, 
returning  to  my  hotel  and  finding  a  handful  of  letters  and 
a  batch  of  month-old  papers.  .  .  .  England  was  agitated 
by  the  question  whether  a  married  man,  who  had  volun- 
teered for  service,  should  be  taken  into  the  army  until  an 
unmarried  man,  who  had  not  so  volunteered,  had  been 
coerced.  It  was  not  an  ennobling  controversy  for  one  who 
had  been  describing  crusades.  .  .  . 

"It  serves  the  married  men  right  for  calling  the  single 
men  shirkers,"  George  Oakleigh  wrote.  "Now  that  they've 
screwed  themselves  up  to  the  point  of  attesting,  they're  try- 
ing to  shirk  in  their  turn.  .  .  .  Psychology  is  revealing  it- 
self curiously.  Men  who  despise  a  Catholic  for  surrender- 
ing the  right  of  private  judgement  are  praying  for  the  Gov- 
ernment to  order  them  about  and  relieve  them  of  the  re- 
sponsibility of  making  up  their  own  minds ....  A  thriving 
trade  is  being  driven  in  rejection  certificates.  Your  enter- 
prising patriot  with  some  physical  defect  gets  himself  duly 
turned  down  for  the  army;  he  then  personates  his  more 
robust  friends  for  a  suitable  fee,  attending  at  their  local 
recruiting  offices  under  their  names  and  pocketing  any 
solatium  that  may  be  handed  out  at  such  times.  It  was 
hardly  this  spirit  which  sent  Jim  Loring  and  Raney  out. 
.  .  .  The  whole  wrangle  is  a  great  opportunity  for  our 
friend  Beresford,  but  he  is  at  least  honest  and  intelligible; 


SONIA  O'JRANE  101 

if  conscription  comes,  he'll  rcfiiso  to- serv'e,  and  the  Gov- 
ernment can  shoot  him.  He  was  committed  to  a  war  with- 
out being  consulted  and  he's  not  going  to  die  of  malaria  in 
Salonica  to  please  a  House  of  Commons  which  he  helped 
to  return  five  years  ago  to  carry  the  Parliament  Bill." 

I  feel  that  I  must  have  addressed  my  audiences  with 
less  conviction  after  a  letter  of  this  kind,  yet  it  was  but 
the  occasional  snapping  of  overstrained  human  nerves. 
Yolande,  I  remember,  wrote  in  great  concern  to  tell  me  that 
her  husband  and  George — two  of  the  kindest,  mildest  and 
most  level-headed  men  I  know — had  quarrelled  and  parted 
in  anger.  A  successful  raid  into  the  German  lines  was 
magnified  into  at  least  a  second-class  victory;  George  in  a 
mood  of  depression  minimised  it  unduly;  Felix  thereat 
raked  up  his  opponent's  record  of  eight  years  before  as  a 
champion  of  disarmament  and  international  peace,  charging 
him  with  being  a  pro-German.  "I  wanted  to  bang  their 
heads  together,  uncle  darling/'  my  niece  confided.  "Will 
you  believe  it?  They  weren't  on  speaking  terms  for  a 
week,  until  I  made  each  apologise  to  the  other.  So  ridicu- 
lous! .  .  ." 

The  unrest  and  dissatisfaction  ran  through  public  and 
private  life  equally. 

"There's  a  perfect  crop  of  what  my  young  cousin  Laurie 
calls  'stunt-artists'  of  late,"  George  wrote  a  week  later. 
"Every  third  man  in  the  House  feels  called  on  to  do  a  'stunt' 
of  his  own.  There's  a  'Ginger  Stunt,'  to  keep  the  Govern- 
ment up  to  the  mark,  and  an  'Air  Stunt/  to  protect  us 
from  Zepps,  and  a  'Civil  Liberties  Stunt/  to  resist  conscrip- 
tion, and  a  'Conscription  Stunt/  to  resist  civil  liberties,  and 
a  'Press  Stunt/  to  quash  the  Press  Bureau,  and  a  sort  of 
'Standing  Stunt'  to  quash  Northcliffe.  Men  of  imaginative 
bent  are  turning  their  eyes  to  Mesopotamia  and  the  Dar- 
danelles, ready  to  start  stunts  there  at  the  earliest  oppor- 
tunity and  on  the  smallest  provocation.  Bertrand  says  that 
in  all  his  experience  he's  never  known  the  House  so  neurotic 
and  out  of  hand.  The  cumulative  effect  is  exceedingly  bad. 
Whether  the  stunts  do  any  good  or  not  I  can't  say,  but 


102  SONlA  MARRIED 

they  destroy : confidents  in  the  Government,  depress  people 
at  home  and  at  the  front,  not  to  mention  the  allies,  and 
ultimately  they'll  bring  the  Government  down.  Now,  with 
the  exception  of  Grayle,  that's  what  no  one  wants  to  do.  As- 
quith's  the  only  man  who  can  hold  the  country  together, 
but  he's  so  anxious — and  rightly — to  keep  his  team  working 
harmoniously  and  to  avoid  any  possibility  of  a  split  any- 
where that  I  don't  think  he  asserts  himself  enough.  A 
party  truce  can  be  overdone,  and  a  good  many  Liberals  are 
saying  that  they  are  always  sacrificed  to  conciliate  some- 
one else  and  never  the  other  way  about;  as  with  Ireland — 
but  I've  no  doubt  your  Irish-Americans  have  delicately 
hinted  in  the  same  sense.  ...  By  the  way,  I  forgot  to 
mention  the  'Stop  the  War  Stunt/  Since  last  I  wrote 
Beresford  has  been  had  up  and  fined;  at  least  he  was  or- 
dered to  pay  the  fine,  but  he  refused ;  so  they  kept  him  in 
prison  for  a  bit,  and  he  hunger-struck  and  now  he's  at 
large  again.  ..." 

George's  next  letter  made  no  reference  to  anything  of 
public  interest. 

"Do  you  remember  saying  that  Sonia  was  a  whole- 
time  job  for  a  man?"  he  began.  "She's  too  much  for  me; 
I'm  going  to  retire  from  the  fray.  When  Raney  came  home 
for  the  Christmas  holidays,  he  and  Sonia  talked  things  over 
— Melton  and  the  House  and  work  of  various  kinds. 
Bertrand  was  dragged  in  to  keep  the  peace  and  advise  gen- 
erally, and  they  reached  this  amount  of  agreement:  Raney 
consented  to  throw  up  his  appointment  at  the  school,  pro- 
vided he  found  work  at  least  equally  remunerative  to  pay 
his  debts  and  keep  the  household  going  and  provided  that 
it  was  work  of  some  public  utility.  He  wasn't  prepared 
simply  to  make  money,  if  his  services  could  be  of  any  use 
to  anyone  for  the  war.  Well,  as  you  know,  almost  every 
kind  of  public  work  involves  the  use  of  your  eyes,  and  it 
would  have  taken  him  some  time  to  find  the  right  kind  of 
job.  In  fact,  he  and  Bertrand  had  not  begun  to  discuss  it 
when  Sonia  went  on  to  the  next  question  with  a  very 
definite  statement  that,  if  he  was  going  to  live  at  The 


SONIA  O'RANE  103 

Sanctuary',  she  claimed  equal  rights  with  him  to  decide  who 
was  invited  to  the  house — in  other  words  (and  very  rea- 
sonably, from  her  point  of  view)  the  house  was  their  home 
and  she  might  just  as  well  be  living  in  the  street  as  in  that 
menagerie.  I  confess  I  sympathise.  I  knew  she  wouldn't 
stand  it  for  more  than  a  very  few  weeks.  You  don't  know 
the  place  as  I  do,  you've  probably  never  seen  anyone  but 
Beresford  dossing  on  a  sofa,  but  Raney  with  the  best  in- 
tentions in  the  world  sometimes  turns  that  place  into  a 
casual  ward.  Sonia  stood  it  at  first,  because  it  was  a  new 
experience  and  she's  got  a  passionate  enjoyment  of  life 
which  would  carry  her  through  everything.  But,  when  the 
novelty  had  worn  off,  it  must  have  been  singularly  uncom- 
fortable; even  Raney's  friends  would  only  smile  pityingly, 
and  you  may  be  sure  that  all  the  Dainton  influence  was 
thrown  into  the  scale  against  him.  I  know  for  a  fact  that 
Lady  Dainton's  done  all  the  mischief  she  can  in  the  way 
of  sneering,  criticising,  setting  Sonia  against  Raney.  The 
important  new  development  was  that  Sonia  was  beginning 
to  echo  her  mother.  I  happened  to  drop  in  about  this  time. 
I  expect  you've  noticed  that  moral  undressing  is  always 
conducted  publicly  in  that  house;  I  heard  Raney  defend 
himself  by  pointing  out  that  Bertrand's  house  had  been 
turned  into  a  hospital,  that  Crowley  Court  was  a  hospital 
and  that  he  was  not  asking  Sonia  to  do  anything  very  dif- 
ferent from  what  Lady  Dainton  was  doing.  'Ever  since 
I  came  back  from  the  front/  he  told  her,  'I've  been  trying 
to  get  this  war  into  perspective.  Everyone's  doing  his 
best  to  save  this  country  and  all  that  it  stands  for,  but  it's 
got  to  stand  for  a  good  deal  more  than  it  did  before  the 
war;  we  owe  it  to  the  fellows  who  have  died  and  the  fel- 
lows who  are  dying  now  and  the  numberless  fellows  who've 
still  got  to  die,  we've  got  to  shew  that  they  died  for  some- 
thing that  we  can  look  at  without  shame.  It'll  be  a  long 
time  before  we  can  be  really  proud  of  this  country,  but 
we  can  make  a  beginning,  and  the  time  to  begin  is  when 
we've  stood  sweating  with  fear  and  remorse  with  a  halter 


io4  SONIA  MARRIED 

round  our  necks  and  the  hangman  comes  to  say  we've  been 
reprieved/ 

"As  you  know,  my  uncle's  a  tough  old  cynic,  but,  when 
Raney  talks  with  that  cold,  vibrant  passion  of  his,  you  have 
to  be  very  tough  not  to  feel  at  least  a  little  uncomfortable. 
I've  had  to  stand  it  ever  since  we  were  at  Oxford  together. 
Sonia  was  about  as  much  impressed  as  if  he'd  been  talking 
to  a  brick  wall.  He  wasn't  discouraged,  but  he  turned 
to  Bertrand — 'You  remember  when  I  got  back,  sir?'  (God! 
I'm  not  likely  to  forget  the  night  when  we  found  he  was 
blind!)  'You  were  in  a  furnished  flat,  and  I  had  awful 
difficulty  in  finding  you,  but  I  came  straight  to  you,  and 
you  and  George  took  me  in  without  a  murmur,'  (I  sup- 
pose he  thought  that  after  sixteen  years  we  were  going  to 
refer  him  to  the  nearest  Rowton  House.)  'That  was — 
symbolical,  sir,'  he  went  on.  'D'you  remember  that  you 
came  in  very  late,  when  I  was  in  bed,  and  we  had  a  talk? 
After  you'd  gone,  I  got  out  of  bed  and  lifted  up  both  hands 
and  swore  that  I'd  not  give  in,  that  I'd  do  what  I  could  with 
what  was  left.  I  swore  that,  as  I'd  been  taken  in — not  only 
by  you;  a  hundred  other  people  had  done  the  same, — I'd 
try  very  humbly  and  patiently  never  to  say  "no"  to  anyone 
else  that  wanted  to  be  taken  in,  anyone  else  that  I  could 
help.  That's  what  I'm  trying  to  do  now.'  Then  he  stopped 
and  left  them  to  digest  it,  with  the  result  which  you  can 
imagine  when  two  people  take  up  wholly  irreconcilable  po- 
sitions. Sonia  said  that  charity  should  begin  at  home,  that 
he  talked  about  not  being  unkind  to  anyone,  but  he  Was 
being  unkind  to  his  own  wife — you  can  imagine  the  dialogue. 
Bertrand  raised  his  two  hands  that  night  and  swore  that 
he'd  clear  out  into  quarters  of  his  own,  and  Sonia's  parting 
words  were  that  she  regarded  her  marriage  as  at  an  end, 
which  is  a  pretty  sentiment  after  five  months." 

A  week  later  George  wrote  again  on  the  same  subject. 

"How  you  must  enjoy  the  sight  of  my  hand !"  he  began. 
"I'm  sorry,  but  I  want  to  blow  off  steam.  The  other  night 
I  took  Raney  out  to  dinner  and  talked  to  him  for  his  soul's 
good.  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  the  tragi-comedy  when  Sonia 


SONIA  O'RANE  105 

was  engaged  to  Jim  Loring  and  I  told  Raney  that  he  was 
courting  disaster  by  the  way  he  was  treating  her.  He  was 
in  one  of  his  most  smiling,  most  obstinate  moods — steel  and 
india-rubber.  He  said  he  couldn't  slam  his  door  in  the 
face  of  anyone  who  wanted  help.  'Very  well !'  I  said ;  'keep 
it  open.  You  say  "yes>"  she  says  "no,"  and  there's  not  a 
square  inch  of  ground  for  compromise.  One  of  you  has  to 
climb  down,  and  you  won't?'  'If  you  like  to  put  it  like 
that,'  says  Raney,  'I  won't.'  'Then  make  her'  I  said. 
'She'll  do  it,  if  you  make  her;  she  won't  love  you  any  the 
less  and  she'll  respect  you  all  the  more,  if  you  force  her 
to  obey  you.'  Raney  was  really  upset.  'Old  man!  you 
mustn't  talk  to  me  about  forcing  my  wife  to  do  things!' 
My  dear  Stornaway,  that's  the  kind  of  imbecile  we've  got  to 
deal  with!  I  warned  him  that,  if  he  kept  his  door  open 
against  her  will,  she  would  walk  out  of  it. 

"God  knows,  I  never  wanted  to  be  a  Cassandra,,  but  I 
know  that  child  so  well !  Two  days  later  Raney  bumped  in- 
to a  young  officer  staggering  along  Victoria  Street  in  an 
advanced  state  of  intoxication ;  Raney  just  had  time  to  find 
out  that  the  fellow  was  due  to  catch  the  leave-train  at  about 
seven  next  morning,  when  his  new  friend  collapsed  on  the 
steps  of  the  Army  and  Navy  Stores  and  settled  himself  to 
a  comfortable  slumber.  I  don't  suppose  any  of  us  would 
have  left  him  there  with  a  fair  prospect  of  being  robbed  or 
run  in  or  discovered  by  the  Provost-Marshal,  to  say  nothing 
of  losing  the  train  and  perhaps  being  court-martialled. 
Raney  must  needs  put  him  in  a  cab,  take  him  home  and  ex- 
pend time,  ingenuity  and  hard-bought  experience  in  making 
him  sober.  It  must  have  been  a  gruesome  night,  but  the  fel- 
low caught  his  train.  It  was  the  last  straw  for  Sonia.  The 
next  day  she  wired  from  Northamptonshire,  asking  me  to 
tell  Raney  that  she  was  staying  with  the  Pentyres.  That 
was  a  week  ago ;  Raney  has  asked  her — asked,  mark  you — 
to  come  back,  and  she  won't  budge.  I  deliberately  cadged 
an  invitation  from  Pentyre  last  week-end,  we  spent  Sunday 
with  one  scene  after  another,  and  her  final  message  on 
Monday  morning  was  that  she  would  come  back  when  he 


io6  SONIA  MARRIED 

agreed  to  do  what  she  asked ;  otherwise  she  would  be  com- 
pelled to  think  that  he,  too,  regarded  the  marriage  as  over. 
I  spent  most  of  Monday  night  storming  at  Raney,  and  the 
present  position  is  that  neither  will  yield  an  inch  and  Raney 
won't  exercise  his  authority. 

"You  are  probably  sick  and  tired  of  them  both  by  now, 
but  you  cannot  be  anything  like  as  sick  or  tired  as  I 
am.' 


This  was  the  last  letter  which  I  received  before  my  re- 
turn to  England  in  the  spring  of  1916.  The  country,  when 
I  landed,  reminded  me  strongly  of  a  theatre  before  a  first 
night;  everyone  was  waiting  for  the  full  deployment  of 
the  new  armies,  everyone  expected  the  summer  campaign 
to  be  the  supreme  test;  by  now,  too,  almost  everyone  had 
son  or  brother  under  arms  waiting  in  the  line  or  rehearsing 
his  share  in  the  coming  offensive.  The  tension  produced  a 
nervous  irritability  which  manifested  itself,  so  far  as  the 
House  of  Commons  was  concerned,  in  a  mutinous  demand 
for  enlightenment,  and  one  of  my  earliest  duties  was  to  be 
present,  with  fine  parade  of  mystery  and  importance,  at  the 
first  secret  session  of  the  war.  The  one  unvarying  rule 
which  I  have  been  able  to  frame  for  the  House  of  Commons 
is  that  it  never  fulfils  expectations.  Though  the  Press  Gal- 
lery was  conscientiously  cleared,  we  were  given  neither  fact 
nor  figure  that  was  not  already  in  the  possession  of  any 
well-informed  journalist;  twenty- four  hours  later  the 
speeches  were  common  property  in  every  club,  and  the  one 
thing  new  was  the  change  in  psychology.  The  show  of  blind 
loyalty  to  the  Government  had  broken  down  until  the  Gov- 
ernment itself  felt  that  something  must  be  tried  to  restore 
confidence.  I  found  that  a  man  of  Bertrand's  tempera- 
mental independence  was  using  Grayle's  currency  of 
speech. 

"Much  good  it's  done !"  he  growled,  as  we  left  the  House 
together.  "It's  no  use  pointing  to  the  number  of  men  you've 
raised  or  the  output  of  shells.  The  country's  outgrown  the 


SONIA  O'RANE  107 

phase  of  being  content  with  good  endeavours,  it  wants 
results,  it's  in  the  mood  to  say,  'You  haven't  beaten  the 
Germans,  and,  if  you  don't  do  it  pretty  quickly,  someone 
must  be  found  who  will/  Stroll  home  with  me,  if  you've 
nothing  better  to  do." 

"You're  in  your  old  quarters  still  ?"  I  asked. 

Bertrand  laughed  and  then  sighed. 

"When  David  asked  me  to  come  here,  I  accepted  on  an 
impulse,"  he  confessed.  "It  was  a  phase  of  the  early  en- 
thusiasm; I  felt  we'd  got  no  business  to  go  on  living  so 
extravagantly,  when  the  boys  out  there  were  going  through 
Hell's  agonies  and  every  penny  was  wanted  to  carry  on  this 
war  and  to  reduce  the  load  of  human  suffering.  I  suppose 
this  dog's  too  old  to  be  taught  new  tricks.  If  you  find  me 
staying  on  now,  it's  only  to  keep  the  peace."  He  stopped  to 
re-light  his  cigar,  and,  as  he  sheltered  the  match  with  his 
hands,  I  saw  that  his  heavy,  powerful  face  was  morose 
and  dissatisfied.  "I've  got  a  considerable  love  for  David. 
He  was  a  fool  to  marry  the  girl,  of  course,  but  a  man  doesn't 
marry  or  keep  a  mistress  because  it's  wise,  but  because  he 
wants  to,  because  he  can't  help  himself.  .  .  .  When  she 
married  him,  I  thought  that  the  war  had  sobered  her  down, 
but  these  soupers  fraternels  have  made  her  restive,  and 
she's  reverted  to  type.  I'm  standing  by  to  break  up  tete- 
a-tetes  and  prevent  her  doing  anything  irrevocable  before 
they've  patched  up  their  present  quarrel  and  agreed  on  some 
possible  way  of  life.  If  he  weren't  blind,  she'd  have  left 
him  three  months  ago.  You  know  they've  not  met  since 
Christmas  ?" 

^ Where  are  they?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  she's  here — with  the  usual  tame  cats  to  carry  her 
off  to  lunch  and  dinner.  She  came  back  the  day  after  David 
returned  to  Melton ....  You  can  see  it's  a  pleasant  house 
to  live  in !  .  .  .  Before  the  war  I  sat  on  a  committee  with 
her  mother.  Do  you  remember  a  phase  when  young  men 
tried  to  grow  side- whiskers  ?  Well,  the  drawing-room  was 
always  full  of  these  hairy  youths,  immaculately  dressed  and 
simpering  round  her  with  boxes  of  sweets  and  flowers, 


108  SONIA  MARRIED 

which  she  very  graciously  accepted.  Since  the  war  these 
fellows  have  shaved  and  got  into  uniform,  but  it's  the  same 
old  gang.  I  used  to  think  nobody  was  injured;  she  liked 
racketing  about  at  restaurants  and  theatres,  they  were  puffed 
up  to  be  with  her.  The  only  man  I  drew  the  line  at  was 
Grayle;  he's  much  heavier  metal."  Bertrand  paused  to 
laugh  with  his  old  cynical  relish.  "I'm  deuced  old,  but  I've 
still  got  a  very  retentive  memory,  and  everybody's  always 
told  me  things.  Well,  I  went  through  the  mental  rag-bag,  I 
talked  to  a  few  people,  I  made  a  few  enquiries — particu- 
larly on  the  American  chapter  of  his  life — and  the  next 
time  we  met  I  became  biographical  at  his  expense.  George 
tried  and  failed.  Friend  Grayle  hasn't  been  here  since.  I 
tell  you,  I  was  getting  sick  of  the  business.  She'd  give  a 
dinner  party  at  eight,  and  Grayle  would  be  here  at  half- 
past  seven  to  talk  to  her  alone,  and,  by  Gad !  she'd  be  dressed 
and  ready  for  him.  I  don't  know  whether  they  thought  I 
was  blind  and  deaf.  .  .  .  And  it  was  the  same  when  she 
dined  at  his  house.  I  used  to  hear  her  coquetting  and 
threatening  to  be  late,  if  he  wasn't  'good' — ugh ! — and  he'd 
swear  he  wouldn't  admit  her,  if  she  wasn't  in  time.  It  was 
all  such  poor  stuff!  I  shouldn't  have  minded  so  much,  if 
there'd  been  any  red  blood  in  it,  but  she  was  obviously  just 
keeping  her  hand  in ;  that  woman  would  make  sheep's  eyes 
at  the  Shakespeare  monument  in  Leicester  Square  sooner 
than  nothing.  .  .  .  So  I  spiked  friend  Grayle's  guns,  and 
she's  had  to  content  herself  with  Beresford.  He's  pretty 
harmless,  but  the  devil  of  it  is  that  she's  ready  to  go  wrong 
with  any  man,  when  she  loses  control  of  her  temper.  If  she 
weren't  restrained  by  her  husband's  blindness  .  .  .  Good 
night.  I'm  going  straight  to  my  room." 

As  I  had  come  to  the  door,  I  thought  that  I  could  do  no 
harm  by  going  in  to  see  who  was  about.  I  found  Beresford 
sitting  up  on  a  sofa  with  a  block  of  paper  on  his  lap.  He 
looked  exceedingly  ill  and  perhaps  not  best  pleased  to  see 
me. 

"You're  back  again,  then?"  I  said.    "How's  the  knee?" 
"I'm  only  waiting  till  Sonia  comes  in,"  he  answered.    "My 


SONIA  O'RANE  109 

knee's  much  the  same  as  it's  been  all  along,  very  much  the 
same  as  it  always  will  be.  The  doctors  are  going  to  give 
me  blood-tests  or  something.  Of  course,  I  didn't  do  it 
much  good  when  I  was  in  prison;  the  doctor  there  was 
badly  scared.  He  used  to  examine  me  each  day  to  see 
how  much  longer  I  could  hold  out  without  food,  and  I  used 
to  see  him  looking  grave  every  time  he  came  to  the  knee, 
until  I'm  prepared  to  bet  he  told  the  authorities  he  wouldn't 
take  the  responsibility  of  keeping  me  there  any  longer. 
Then  they  let  me  out."  His  grey  lips  curled  into  a  wither- 
ing sneer.  "God!  the  authorities  in  this  country  deserve 
to  lose  their  precious  war!  D'you  think  that  in  Germany 
they'd  allow  me  to  write  the  pamphlets  I  do  here?  D'you 
think,  if  they  decided  not  to  shoot  me,  they'd  let  me  out  of 
prison  because  they  were  afraid  to  force  food  down  my 
throat?  The  blessed  innocents  here  said  I  might  go,  if  I 
promised  to  drop  my  propaganda;  they  brought  in  a  pen 
and  paper.  Well,  I'd  been  without  water  for  four  days, 
and  my  throat  and  mouth  were  so  swollen  that  I  couldn't 
speak.  I  couldn't  write  very  elegantly,  either,  but  I  col- 
lected enough  strength  to  scrawl  'I'll  see  you  in  Hell  first.' 
And  then,  if  you  please,  I  was  let  out.  And  now  I'm  im- 
proving the  occasion." 

He  collected  a  number  of  loose  sheets  and  pinned  them 
together. 

"As  long  as  you  think  it  does  any  good,"  I  said,  "the 
Archangel  Gabriel  wouldn't  be  able  to  stop  you." 

"You  don't  think  it's  a  good  thing  to  keep  people  from 
slaughtering  one  another?  Dear  man,  d'you  appreciate  that, 
if  Kitchener  and  Grey  were  in  Potsdam  at  this  moment  with 
the  unconditional  surrender  of  Germany  in  their  pocket, 
they  couldn't  get  anything  to  compensate  our  present  losses  ? 
There's  imbecile  talk  about  security  and  a  'war-to-end-war,' 
but  you  won't  have  war  when  people  understand  what  it's 
like.  That's  what  I'm  trying  to  shew  them." 

He  threw  himself  back  on  the  sofa  and  began  reading 
what  he  had  written.  I  got  up  to  leave,  only  pausing  to 
give  him  a  message  for  Mrs.  O'Rane.  As  I  closed  the  door 


no  SONIA  MARRIED 

behind  me,  a  taxi  stopped  at  the  corner  twenty  yards  from 
"The  Sanctuary"  and  a  man  in  uniform  stepped  out  and 
stretched  one  hand  to  somebody  inside,  holding  the  door 
open  with  the  other.  His  size  alone,  without  the  familiar 
mane  of  yellow  hair,  identified  him  for  me  as  Grayle;  a 
moment  later  Mrs.  O'Rane  emerged  and  stood  by  him  under 
the  street  lamp  at  the  corner.  Bertrand  might  keep  Grayle 
as  far  away  as  the  end  of  the  street,  but  I  felt  that  he  had 
boasted  prematurely. 

"You'll  come  in  ?"  I  heard  Mrs.  O'Rane  say,  as  her  com- 
panion hesitated  by  the  taxi. 

"Not  to-night,  thanks.    It's  rather  late." 

I  caught  a  light  ripple  of  laughter. 

"You're  not  getting  suddenly  anxious  about  my  reputa- 
tion, are  you?"  she  asked.  "You  used  to  like  coming  in 
and  talking  to  me ;  and  you  know  how  I  hate  going  to  bed. 
Of  course,  if  you  don't  want  to " 

Grayle  opened  his  case  and  took  out  a  cigarette. 

''That  cuts  no  ice,  Sonia/'  he  said.  "Good-night  and 
thank  you  for  coming.  I  shall  see  you  to-morrow." 

"I  don't  think  I  shall  come." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  will." 

"If  you're  so  afraid  of  being  compromised " 

"You  are  coming  to-morrow." 

She  was  silent;  and,  if  it  had  been  day-light,  I  would  have 
staked  my  life  that  she  was  pouting  suitably. 

"You  used  to  say  that  to-morrow  was  a  very  long  way 
off,"  she  remarked  irrelevantly. 

Grayle's  voice  became  authoritative. 

"You  are  coming  to-morrow,  Sonia." 

No  doubt  it  was  the  old  small  change  of  flirtation  which 
had  exasperated  Bertrand,  and  I  had  already  been  made  to 
hear  more  than  I  relished.  Stepping  into  the  circle  of  dim 
light,  I  bade  her  good  evening  and  asked  Grayle  if  he  had 
finished  with  his  taxi. 

"Hul-/o/  I  didn't  know  you  were  back  in  England!"  she 
cried.  "Have  you  been  calling?  I  wish  I'd  known.  You've 
got  to  come  back  now." 


SONIA  O'RANE  in 

"I  looked  in  for  a  moment,"  I  said.  "Now  I  must  get 
home,  though." 

"I'll  give  you  a  lift,"  Grayle  volunteered. 

Mrs.  O'Rane  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  us,  and  her 
eyes  and  mouth  hardened  in  an  expression  of  pique. 

"My  society  seems  rather  at  a  discount  to-night,"  she  ob- 
served. 

"You'll  find  Beresford  waiting  for  you,"  I  said.  "I've 
been  talking  to  him,  but  I've  got  to  get  home  now." 

She  turned  to  Grayle,  and  I  will  swear  that  she  was 
watching  to  see  if  Beresford's  name  was  a  challenge. 

"I  must  get  home,  too,"  was  all  that  he  would  say.  '1 
shall  see  you  to-morrow." 

"Oh,  I  meant  to  tell  you.  I  can't  come  to-morrow,"  she 
answered  with  easy  gravity,  as  though  I  had  not  heard 
every  syllable  of  her  earlier  conversation.  "Well,  if  you 
won't  come  in,  I'll  say  good-night.  Thanks  for  a  most  de- 
lightful evening." 

Grayle  and  I  drove  in  silence  for  half  of  the  way.  Then 
he  asked  me  abruptly  how  I  had  got  on  in  America. 

For  some  weeks  I  continued  to  attend  to  my  own  work 
uninterrupted  by  the  O'Ranes,  but  towards  the  end  of  the 
Easter  term  I  had  to  make  my  way  to  Melton  for  the 
Governors'  meeting.  A  note  from  O'Rane  invited  me  to 
call  before  going  back  to  London,  and  at  the  end  of  our 
business  I  invaded  his  rooms  to  find  him  seated,  as  ever, 
cross-legged  on  the  floor  with  his  head  thrown  back,  lips 
parted  and  eyes  seemingly  fixed  on  the  ceiling  or  on  some- 
thing beyond  it.  The  room  was  crowded  with  what  I  can 
only  call  a  cluster  of  boys  sprawling  on  chairs  and  tables  or 
precariously  perched  with  linked  arms  on  the  broad  mantel- 
piece. Some  were  conventionally  dressed,  some  were  in 
flannels,  some  in  uniform ;  the  majority,  however,  preferred 
a  motley  of  khaki  breeches,  puttees  and  vivid  blazers.  It 
was  the  end  of  a  field  day,  and  a  few  of  O'Rane's  friends 
had  dropped  in  to  talk  with  him.  After  some  moments  it 
occurred  to  the  boy  nearest  the  door  to  ask  if  I  wished  to 


ii2  SONIA  MARRIED 

speak  to  Mr.  O'Rane,  and  on  that,  to  my  regret,  the  semi- 
nar dissolved. 

As  the  last  boy  clattered  into  the  Goisters,  O'Rane  felt 
for  a  box  of  cigarettes  and  asked  me  how  I  had  got  on  in 
America. 

"George  told  me  you  were  back,"  he  said.  "Have  you 
been  round  to  our  place  ?" 

"I  went  round  there  almost  immediately/'  I  told  him.  "I 
say,  O'Rane " 

Perhaps  he  guessed  what  was  coming,  for  I  was  not 
allowed  to  finish  my  sentence. 

"Was  Beresford  there?"  he  asked. 

I  hesitated  for  what  I  should  have  thought  was  an  im- 
perceptible moment;  and  O'Rane  repeated  his  question. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact  he  was,"  I  said. 

"Ah!  I  wish  I'd  known  that  before.  .  .  .  Oh,  now  I  see 
why  you  hesitated!"  He  gave  a  buoyant  laugh.  "I  can 
assure  you  that  Beresford  doesn't  make  me  in  the  least 
jealous  or  in  the  least  apprehensive.  I'd  trust  him  pretty 
well  as  far  as  I'd  trust  Sonia ;  our  outlook's  so  similar,  we've 
got  so  much  in  common.  Well,  the  authorities  have  got 
their  eyes  on  him,  and  he'll  find  himself  arrested  again,  if 
he  isn't  careful.  And  he's  only  alienating  possible  sym- 
pathisers with  the  stuff  he's  writing  now.  Did  you  read 
him  on  the  typhus  outbreak  at  Wittenburg  ?" 

He  jumped  up  and  brought  me  a  copy  of  "The  Watch- 
man" from  his  writing-table.  Beresford's  article  made  me 
very  angry.  A  few  days  earlier  my  nephew  Felix,  dining 
with  me  at  the  Hyde  Park  Hotel,  where  I  had  now  taken 
up  my  residence,  had  given  me  a  sickening  account  of  the 
epidemic  in  the  prisoners'  camp;  a  fuller  and  yet  more 
sickening  account  had  appeared  in  the  Press,  and  from  end 
to  end  of  the  country  there  burst  a  storm  of  indignation 
stronger  than  anything  since  the  outcry  against  the  atrocities 
in  Belgium.  At  this  moment  and  from  this  text  Beresford, 
who  saw  red  at  the  news  of  the  mildest  cruelty  to  man 
or  animal,  preached  a  cynical,  superior  sermon  to  prove 
that,  if  misguided  fools  went  to  war,  this  was  the  kind  of 


SONIA  O'RANE  113 

thing  they  must  expect.  The  object  of  war  was  to  kill, 
and  the  only  reason  why  the  Germans  did  not  massacre  their 
prisoners  was  that  on  balance  their  own  losses  might  be 
greater.  But  in  scientific  warfare  it  was  unjustifiable  to 
expect  German  doctors  and  nurses  to  risk  their  lives  for 
the  sake  of  preserving  the  enemy's.  The  English  might; 
the  English  habitually  boasted  of  picking  up  survivors  after 
a  naval  engagement,  but  it  was  not  war. 

"God  knows  I'm  not  in  love  with  war,"  said  O'Rane,  as 
I  flung  the  paper  away,  "but  an  article  like  that  infuriates 
just  the  decent-minded  people  he's  appealing  to.  Well,  bad 
taste  is  not  an  indictable  offence,  but  I  had  a  hint  dropped 
this  week-end  that  made  me  think  that  Beresford  had  bet- 
ter go  warily.  We  had  a  man  dining  in  Common  Room  on 
Sunday  whose  job  in  life  is  to  advise  on  people  like  him 
and  the  stuff  they  turn  out.  We  got  on  to  the  Witten- 
burg  article,  and  it  came  out  that  I  knew  the  author.  Well, 
there  was  nothing  much  the  matter  with  that  branch  of 
Intelligence  Service;  they  knew  all  about  Beresford,  but 
they  didn't  want  to  give  him  a  free  advertisement  and  make 
a  martyr  of  him,  so  they  tried  to  get  hold  of  him  under 
the  Military  Service  Act  and  stop  his  mouth  that  way.  He 
was  ordered  to  join  up  on  a  certain  day,  so  he  wrote  a 
polite  letter  to  say  that  he  disapproved  of  war  and  did  not 
propose  to  fight.  When  the  day  came,  he  was  well  and 
duly  put  in  charge  of  a  guard  and  marched  off  to  the  re- 
cruiting office  to  be  presented  to  the  army  and  turned  into 
a  soldier.  Before  that  could  be  done,  though,  the  doctors 
had  their  say.  To  cut  it  short,  he  was  rejected  rather  more 
completely  than  anyone's  ever  been  rejected  before — heart, 
lungs,  knee.  .  .  .  One  doctor  told  him  that  if  he  didn't  live 
in  the  open  air  and  blow  himself  out  with  milk,  he'd  be 
dead  in  six  months.  That  was  a  week  ago.  The  army's 
been  cheated  of  its  prey,  and  my  friend  of  Sunday  night 
must  find  another  means  of  stopping  Beresford's  mouth. 
What  the  fellow  must  understand  is  that  they  intend  to  catch 
him  this  time;  their  temper's  none  the  better  for  the  little 
rebuff  at  the  recruiting  office.  I  was  meaning  to  come  up 


ii4  SONIA  MARRIED 

and  talk  to  him  at  the  next  Leave-Out,  but  I'm  afraid  he 
may  put  his  head  in  the  trap  before  I  can  get  at  him.  That's 
why  I  asked  you  to  come  and  see  me;  I  want  you  to  take 
him  in  hand." 

After  the  Wittenburg  article  I  was  not  inclined  to  raise 
a  finger  on  Beresford's  behalf.  And  so  I  told  O'Rane. 

"But  do  you  want  him  to  die?"  he  asked.  "If  they  shove 
him  in  prison  and  he  hunger-strikes  again,  you  may  never 
see  him  alive." 

"I  think  I  could  endure  that,"  I  said.  "The  man's  mind 
is  perverted." 

"Ah,  then,  you  mustn't  treat  him  as  if  he  were  normal," 
O'Rane  put  in  quickly.  "I  want  you  to  go  to  him  and  tell 
him  to  drop  the  whole  business.  Lord  knows,  I've  been  up 
against  authority  in  one  form  or  another  most  of  my  life, 
but  there's  nothing  heroic  in  getting  shot,  if  you  don't 
achieve  anything  by  it.  You  can  get  him  to  see  that,  surely." 

By  this  time  I  confess  that  I  had  become  one  of  many 
who  found  it  hard  to  refuse  O'Rane  anything;  perhaps  it 
was  because  he  never  asked  for  himself. 

"I'll  try, — as  a  favour  to  you,"  I  said.  "Though  I've  no 
idea  why  I  should  want  to  do  you  a  favour.  O'Rane,  you're 
making  a  considerable  mess  of  your  life." 

The  expression  on  his  face  suddenly  changed,  and  he 
became  courteously  unapproachable. 

"Do  you  think  we  shall  do  any  good  by  discussing  it?" 
he  asked. 

"Every  day  that  you  let  slip  makes  it  harder  to  mend 
the  breach.  This  term's  running  out.  What  are  you  going 
to  do  in  the  holidays?" 

"I'm  going  home." 

"To  the  sort  of  doss-house  life  that  you  led  before?" 

"I — suppose  so." 

I  put  on  my  coat  and  started  towards  the  door. 

"Your  wife  will  leave  you,"  I  warned  him. 

"I've  told  her— and  I  believe  I  told  you— that  I'd  never 
keep  her  against  her  will." 

"My  friend,  you  are  making  a  great  fool  of  yourself." 


SONIA  O'RANE  115 

O'Rane  opened  the  door  for  me,  and  we  passed  into  the 
Cloisters. 

"I  didn't  think  we  should  do  any  good  by  discussing  it," 
he  said. 


If  I  could  have  persuaded  anyone  else  to  carry  O'Rane' s 
warning  to  Beresford,  I  would  have  done  so,  but  old 
Bertrand  and  George  had  crossed  to  Ireland  for  a  week's 
fishing,  and,  when  I  called  on  Mrs.  O'Rane  in  the  hope  of 
catching  her  for  ten  minutes  in  a  serious  mood,  it  was 
my  ill-luck  to  choose  the  night  before  Pentyre  went  out  to 
the  Front.  An  impromptu  dance  was  taking  its  noisy 
course,  and  the  only  satisfaction  which  I  derived  from  the 
visit  was  my  discovery  that  the  estrangement  was  not  yet 
common  property.  Indeed,  Mrs.  O'Rane  was  fortunate  in 
that  her  behaviour,  however  outrageous,  was  judged  and 
condoned  by  a  special  standard.  "That's  so  like  darling 
Sonia,"  Lady  Maitland  and  her  like  would  say.  I  took  the 
trouble  to  pump  young  Deganway,  whom  I  personally  dis- 
like, but  even  his  long  nose  had  not  scented  a  scandal.  It 
never  seemed  to  dawn  on  Sir  Roger  and  Lady  Dainton  that 
anything  was  amiss ;  they  both  disapproved  of  O'Rane,  they 
both  felt,  without  taking  the  trouble  to  disguise  their  feel- 
ings, that  Sonia  had  disappointed  their  ambitions  and  was 
wasting  her  life ;  but  with  a  curious  timidity  or  survival  of 
self-respect  Mrs.  O'Rane  never  let  her  own  relations  see 
that  eight  months  after  her  marriage  she  was  in  effect 
separated  from  her  husband. 

Failing  to  transfer  my  burden  to  other  shoulders,  I  drove 
one  night  to  Sloane  Square  and  ran  Beresford  to  earth  in 
his  rooms  at  the  top  of  a  modest  block  of  service  flats. 
There  was  no  lift,  and  I  was  out  of  breath  and  temper  by 
the  time  that  I  had  climbed  eight  flights  of  stairs  and  lost 
myself  in  an  uncharted  maze  of  stone-flagged  passages.  At 
last,  with  a  stitch  in  my  side,  I  found  his  name  painted  on  a 
wall  and  leaned  helplessly  against  the  door,  as  I  looked  for 
the  bell.  The  door  yielded  unexpectedly,  and  I  found  myself 


n6  SONIA  MARRIED 

stumbling  into  an  unlighted  passage,  where  a  phosphores- 
cent rectangle  hinted  at  a  second  door.  Groping  for  the 
handle,  I  knocked  and  entered.  Beresford  was  lying  in  an 
arm-chair  with  the  injured  leg  on  a  coffin-stool  and  a  reading 
lamp  on  a  rickety  oriental  table  behind  him.  In  semi-dark- 
ness the  room  was  youthfully  bizarre.  There  were  low  cases, 
filled  with  paper-labelled  books,  running  round  three  walls, 
a  window  with  a  divan  under  it  in  the  fourth,  Japanese  silk 
hangings  above  the  book-cases  and  praying  mats  insecurely 
scattered  on  an  over-polished  floor.  The  furniture  con- 
sisted of  a  red  lacquer  cupboard,  chest  and  clock;  in  one 
corner  a  Buddha  smiled  from  behind  folding  doors  with 
placid  and  baffling  benevolence ;  a  discoloured  Moorish  lamp 
hung  from  the  middle  of  the  ceiling  with  the  Hand  of  Wel- 
come outstretched  to  support  it;  a  joss-stick  in  a  porcelain 
vase  on  the  mantel-piece  smouldered  fragrantly. 

At  the  creak  of  the  door's  opening,  Beresford  raised  him- 
self abruptly  in  his  chair  and  as  quickly  subsided. 

"Oh,  it's  you,"  he  said. 

"I  didn't  see  any  bell,  so  I  walked  in/'  I  told  him.  "Are 
you  busy?" 

Out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  he  glanced  at  the  table  be- 
side him.  There  was  neither  paper  nor  book  to  offer  plausi- 
ble protection. 

"I  didn't  look  for  this  honour/'  he  said  with  a  slight 
sneer.  "I  was — as  a  matter  of  fact — thinking  out  an  arti- 
cle,— thing  I've  got  to  finish  to-night,  you  know."  I  sniffed — 
disapprovingly,  I  fear — the  close,  rather  sickly  atmosphere 
and  loosened  my  coat.  "It's  a  few  reflections  on  the  an- 
niversary of  the  'Lusitania/  "  he  went  on,  in  a  tone  of  chal- 
lenge, "pabulum  for  thoughtful  Yanks.  Do  you  want  to 
see  me  about  anything  in  particular  ?  I — I've  got  to  get  this 
finished  to-night." 

His  theme  gave  me  my  cue,  and  I  furnished  him  with  a 
digest  of  my  conversation  with  O'Rane.  He  heard  me  out, 
impatiently  but  without  protest. 

"I'm  sure  it's  very  kind  of  you  both,"  he  said  at  length, 
"but  I'm  afraid  it's  no  use.  We  should  never  have  had  this 


SONIA  O'RANE  117 

war,  if  a  few  other  people  had  done  what  I'm  doing  instead 
of  blathering  about  peace  and  disarmament  in  a  sixpenny 
review,  like  young  Oakleigh,  and  throwing  everything  to  the 
winds  the  moment  war  was  declared.  I  appreciate  your 
coming,  all  the  same " 

He  pulled  himself  upright  and  limped  to  the  lacquer 
cupboard,  from  which  he  took  out  a  writing-block  and  pad. 
I  was  ready  and  anxious  to  leave  as  soon  as  I  had  delivered 
myself  of  my  message,  but — petty  as  it  may  seem — I  re- 
sented his  hunting  me  out  of  his  flat  quite  so  unceremoni- 
ously; hitherto  I  had  perched  on  the  arm  of  a  chair;  I  now 
lowered  myself  with  an  obstinacy  unbecoming  my  age  into 
its  depths. 

"But  surely  you  can  see  that  it's  no  good  trying  to 
separate  fighting  dogs  when  once  they've  got  to  work? 
That's  why  George  brought  his  paper  to  an  end.  You've 
got  to  wait  for  a  decision  of  some  kind." 

"We  reached  a  decision  when  the  Germans  were  checked 
at  the  Marne,"  he  yawned,  pulling  back  his  sleeve  to  consult 
the  watch  on  his  wrist. 

"But  that's  over  and  done  with.  Any  peace  efforts  now 
only  have  the  effect  of  weakening  our  own  endurance  and 
making  a  German  victory  the  one  possible  decision." 

"But  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  there's  going  to  be 
no  military  decision.  If  they  couldn't  break  through  our 
line,  we  can't  break  through  theirs,  and  I  want  to  stop  this 
hideous  slaughter  on  both  sides.  I  want  to  make  people  see 
that  they  must  get  Wilson  or  the  Pope  to  propose  terms  of 
arbitration."  The  pupils  of  his  eyes  suddenly  dilated.  "And 
that's  what  I  shall  go  on  saying.  I'm  not  going  to  be  per- 
suaded by  you,  I  can't  be  intimidated  by  the  militarists,  and 
I  won't  share  your  responsibility  for  future  bloodshed,  I 
won't  join  in  this  criminal  nonsense  about  crushing  Prus- 
sian militarism — humiliating  Germany  until  you've  made 
sure  of  another  war  in  ten  years'  time.  I  think  I've  told  you 
what  the  next  war  will  be  like."  His  voice  had  risen  almost 
to  a  scream;  with  an  effort  he  controlled  himself,  snorted 


n8  SONIA  MARRIED 

disgustedly  and  limped  to  the  sofa  where  I  had  laid  my  hat 
and  cane,  considerately  picking  them  up  for  me. 

I  moved  towards  the  door.  As  I  did  so,  my  ears  caught 
the  sound  of  a  low  whistle,  followed  in  the  ensuing  silence 
by  a  light  step  and  the  rustle  of  silk  clothes  from  the  flagged 
passage  outside  the  front  door.  At  last  I  understood  why  it 
had  been  left  open,  why  the  industrious  Beresford  was  un- 
occupied on  my  arrival,  why  he  had  given  me  so  many  en- 
couragements to  retire.  An  unexpected  sense  of  male  free- 
masonry made  me  sorry  for  him.  There  was  but  the  one 
door  to  the  room,  and  already  the  rustle  had  passed  from 
the  passage  outside  and  was  audible  in  the  dark  corridor 
where  I  had  fumbled  for  the  handle  twenty  minutes  before. 
Beresford  stared  before  him  with  tragic  eyes  and  parted 
lips ;  he  grasped  my  wrist  and  let  it  fall  again ;  then  the  door 
opened,  and  I  could  hear  a  double  quick  intake  of  breath. 

Mrs.  O'Rane  was  standing  on  the  threshold  in  a  black 
dress  with  an  ermine  coat  open  at  the  neck,  an  artificial 
pink  rose  in  her  hair  and  a  cluster  of  them  at  her  waist.  One 
hand  in  a  white  glove  circled  with  a  platinum  watch-bracelet 
rested  on  the  finger-plate,  and  she  smiled  at  Beresford  de- 
murely. The  smile  grew  fixed  and  then  faded  when  she 
saw  who  bore  Beresford  company ;  with  unfeigned  admira- 
tion I  saw  her  collecting  herself  and  preparing  an  offen- 
sive. 

"Are  you  better?"  she  asked,  coming  into  the  room  as 
though  she  were  paying  an  afternoon  call.  "Good  evening, 
Mr.  Stornaway.  Peter's  not  been  at  all  well,  and  I  promised 
to  come  and  talk  to  him.  I  hope  I'm  not  interrupting  you; 
I'm  rather  before  my  time."  She  glanced  at  her  watch, 
laid  her  hands  on  Beresford's  shoulders  and  gently  impelled 
him  towards  his  chair.  "Darling  Peter,  how  often  have  I 
told  you  that  you  mustn't  stand  ?  Sit  down  like  a  good  boy, 
put  your  foot  up  and  tell  me  how  you  got  on  with  the 
doctor." 

She  seated  herself  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  waved  me  to 
another  and  threw  open  her  coat. 

"They  took  the  blood-tests,"  said  Beresford,  gallantly  try- 


SONIA  O'RANE  119 

ing  to  imitate  her  nonchalance.  "I'm  to  lie  up  and  not  to 
work.  ...  At  least,  those  are  the  orders." 

Bending  over  him,  she  touched  his  forehead  with  her 
lips. 

"And  you're  going  to  obey  them,"  she  said. 

Beresford  shrugged  his  shoulders  sullenly. 

"What  good  will  it  do?"  he  demanded. 

"It  will  please  me,"  she  answered  promptly.  "Lady  Mait- 
land  says  that  all  I  want  is  love,  ten  thousand  a  year  and  my 
own  way.  I  don't  want  you  to  die,  Peter  mine." 

He  looked  at  her  and  turned  his  head  resignedly  away. 

"I  feel  sometimes  I've  not  got  a  great  deal  to  live  for," 
he  sighed. 

She  jumped  up  with  a  show  of  indignation. 

"You  dare  say  that,  when  I've  outraged  Colonel  Grayle 
by  leaving  his  party  to  come  and  sit  with  you !  Never  again, 
my  Peter !  If  you  think  so  little  of  having  me  here " 

"It  would  be  better  for  him  and  more  seemly  for  you 
to  drop  this  kind  of  thing,"  I  suggested. 

She  looked  at  me  with  her  head  on  one  side  and  then 
swung  slowly  round  to  Beresford. 

"I  believe  he's  right,  you  know,  Peter.  I  come  here  radi- 
ating sunniness,  but  I  only  seem  to  depress  you.  Shall  I 
give  you  up,  baby?" 

"You  think  that  will  make  me  less  depressed?"  he  asked 
gloomily. 

"I  feel  I'm  a  bad  habit."  Her  expression  lost  its  smile 
and  became  charged  with  abrupt  neurotic  irritability. 
"You've  had  more  of  my  time,  more  of  my  sweetness " 

"Do  you  think  I  don't  appreciate  that?" 

"I  ought  never  to  have  let  you  fall  in  love  with  me. 
Mr.  Stornaway's  quite  right.  It's  all  my  fault,  and  the 
sooner  I  end  it  the  better.  Good-bye,  Peter.  It  was  a  mis- 
take, but  I'm  not  ungrateful.  When  I  was  miserable,  when 
I  wanted  sweetness " 

Beresford  jerked  himself  erect  and  caught  her  arm,  as 
she  tried  to  get  up. 

"You're  not  going?"  he  begged. 


120  SONIA  MARRIED 

"Yes.     And  I'm  never  coming  back." 

"God  in  Heaven!     Sonia!    Don't  say  that!" 

For  perhaps  the  fourth  time  that  night  I  picked  up  my 
hat  and  cane.  However  little  I  might  care  for  Beresford, 
common  humanity  ordained  that  this  kind  of  game  should 
end. 

"This  fellow's  an  invalid,"  I  reminded  her.  "You're  only 
making  him  worse  by  exciting  him.  You  had  better  let 
me  see  you  home.  Taxis  are  few  and  far  between,  and  I 
took  the  precaution  of  telling  mine  to  wait." 

She  turned  her  little  platinum  watch  to  the  light  and 
compared  it  with  the  clock  on  the  mantel-piece. 

"I  can  get  a  train,  you  know,"  she  told  me,  losing  all 
her  irritability  and  becoming  matter-of-fact.  "And  I  hate 
going  to  bed  more  than  anything  in  the  world  except  getting 
up.  When  we  had  a  house  in  Rutland  Gate  my  first  season, 
Lord  John  Carstairs  who  lived  next  door  always  used  to 
say  that  he  knew  it  was  time  for  breakfast  when  he 
heard  my  taxi  bringing  me  home  after  a  ball.  So  nice  to 
feel  that  one  sometimes  really  does  one's  duty  to  one's 
neighbour;  it  justifies  the  church  catechism.  He  was  very 
grateful  about  it  and,  whenever  I  lost  my  latch-key,  he 
used  to  come  down  and  help  me  in  through  the  fan-light. 
Then  there  was  a  dreadful  day  when  I  got  stuck  on  a 
piece  of  broken  glass — father's  bill  for  fan-lights  was  so 
heavy  that  we  couldn't  take  a  moor  that  year;  he  always 
thought  it  was  the  suffragettes — and  Lord  John  stood 
below  in  the  divinest  green  silk  pyjamas  and  an  Austrian 
military  cloak,  I  lay  half-way  through  the  fan-light,  we 
exhausted  every  possible  topic  of  conversation,  including  the 
Academy,  and  at  last  he  proposed  to  me.  I've  never  been 
so  angry  in  my  life!  If  he'd  proposed  first  and  talked 
about  the  Academy  afterwards,  nobody  could  have  minded." 

Having  prattled  herself  into  a  good  temper,  she  paused 
to  take  a  cigarette  from  a  gold  case  at  her  wrist.  I  re- 
minded her  that  we  had  lost  sight  of  the  particular  in  the 
general. 

"It  is  late,"  I  said.     "Too  late  for  you  to  be  calling  on 


SONIA  O'RANE  121 

young  bachelors  and  far  too  late  to  be  left  unchaperoned." 

Her  big  brown  eyes,  usually  soft  and  entreating,  gave 
forth  a  glint  of  defiance. 

"Dear  Mr.  Stornaway !  If  you  knew  how  often  I'd  been 
to  see  Peter " 

"That  makes  it  no  better." 

"You  think  I'm  not  respectable,"  she  exclaimed  with  the 
slightest  perceptible  toss  of  the  head. 

"I've  other  things  to  think  about.  If  you  want  to  call 
on  Beresford,  you  can  call  in  the  day-time;  your  only 
reason  for  choosing  an  hour  of  this  kind  is  that  you  think 
there's  something  rather  venturesome  and  improper  about 
it.  It's  this  sort  of  behaviour  that  led  me  on  a  famous 
occasion  to  tell  you  that  you  were  second-rate." 

Possibly  acting  on  a  hint  from  George  Oakleigh,  I  was 
beginning  to  share  his  experience  that  Mrs.  O'Rane  never 
resented  a  certain  brutal  candour  of  criticism. 

"You  do  hate  me,  don't  you?"  she  laughed. 

"I  have  no  use  for  the  second-rate." 

"And  that  disposes  of  me!"  She  leant  down  and  drew 
Beresford  to  her  until  his  head  was  pillowed  on  her  bosom. 
"Baby,  you're  in  love  with  a  second-rate  woman.  So  are 
ever  so  many  people  more,  I'm  afraid.  It  doesn't  speak 
highly  for  the  first-rate  intelligence  of  men,  but  then  I  take 
men  as  I  find  them." 

"Pardon  me,  you  go  out  to  look  for  them,  Mrs.  O'Rane," 
I  said. 

"It's  the  same  thing." 

"Not  for  a  married  woman." 

We  had  bantered  hitherto  without  very  much  malice,  but 
my  reminder  seemed  to  carry  a  sting. 

"I  don't  regard  myself  as  a  married  woman,"  she  said 
very  deliberately. 

"I  cannot  remain  out  of  bed  to  hear  stuff  of  this  kind !" 
I  exclaimed.  "Melodrama  is  only  excusable  when  it  is 
convincing." 

"Don't  you  be  too  sure  that  you  won't  be  convinced!"  she 
cried,  springing  up  and  facing  me.  The  ermine  coat,  droop- 


122  SONIA  MARRIED 

ing  half  off  her  arms  and  back,  fell  to  the  ground  and 
left  her  bare-shouldered  and  with  heaving  breast.  The 
rose  in  her  hair  trembled,  and  two  normally  pale  cheeks 
were  lit  each  with  a  single  spot  of  burning  colour.  The 
weakness  that  underlay  the  softness  of  her  mouth  had 
vanished,  and  her  eyes,  grown  angry  and  hot,  had  lost 
their  beauty.  "Will  you  come  and  see  me,  I  wonder,  when 
I'm  living  with  Peter?"  she  asked  flauntingly. 

"I  shall  not,"  I  answered.  "I  may  say  that  this  kind 
of  talk " 

"But  you  wouldn't  mind  seeing  him?"  she  interrupted. 
"This  is  all  right  in  a  man.  David  can  go  off  with  that 
woman " 

"Good-night,  Mrs.  O'Rane,"  I  said,  holding  out  my  hand. 

Like  everyone  else,  I  sometimes  feel  intuitively  when 
people  are  speaking  for  effect.  Mrs.  O'Rane  spoke  purely 
for  effect  when  she  boasted  of  the  times  that  she  had 
been  to  call  on  Beresford;  she  was  still  speaking  for 
effect  when  I  warned  her  against  being  melodramatic,  yet 
sincerity  crept  in  when  she  referred  to  her  husband.  I 
hardly  knew  whether  to  be  glad  or  sorry.  For  her  to  be 
jealous  of  Hilda  Merryon  presupposed  that  she  was  not 
so  indifferent  to  O'Rane  as  she  pretended;  even  to  feign 
suspicion  argued  an  unbalanced  mind. 

"Good-night,"  I  repeated,  as  she  stood  ostentatiously 
refusing  to  take  my  hand.  "You  had  better  let  me  see 
you  home,  though." 

"I'm  not  coming  home.  I  won't  be  ordered  about! 
You  advise  me  and  find  fault  with  me  and  insult  me.  .  .  . 
Mr.  Stornaway,  let  me  tell  you  this.  You've  been — poking 
your  nose  into  my  affairs  for  some  time,  so  I'm  sure  you've 
a  right  to  know  everything.  You  side  with  David  and 
think  everything  he  does  is  wonderful,  perfect,  magnificent. 
Well,  I  don't.  I  know  I'm  vain;  and  I'm  vain  enough  to 
think  he's  not  treating  me  as  I'm  entitled  to  be  treated. 
He'll  be  coming  home  in  a  fortnight.  I  wrote  to  him  to-day 
and  asked  him  if  he  wanted  to  see  me.  If  he  does,  he 
can.  If  he  wants  me  and  not  the  scourings  of  the  London 


SONIA  O'RANE  123 

streets.  ...  If  not,  if  he  doesn't  love  me  enough  for 
that,  I  shall  look  for  someone  who  does." 

I  ended  my  succession  of  unsuccessful  starts  and  reached 
the  door.  Mrs.  O'Rane  strode  after  me  with  arms  akimbo. 

"You  don't  believe  it!'1  she  cried  passionately.  "You 
don't  think  I  dare!" 

"My  dear  young  lady,  in  your  present  mood  you're  cap- 
able of  most  things,"  I  said.  "But  Beresford  and  I  are 
going  to  forget  what  you've  been  saying  to-night,  and 
I  think  you'll  be  glad  to  forget  it,  too." 


One  says  rhetorically  that  one  will  forget  a  phrase  or  an 
episode,  but  my  single  glimpse  of  Mrs.  O'Rane's  temper  had 
frightened  forget  fulness  away.  I  kept  on  telling  myself 
that  it  was  no  business  of  mine,  that  my  rule  for  thirty 
years  had  been  to  let  the  younger  generation  take  care 
of  itself  untrammelled;  yet,  when  George  Oakleigh  tele- 
phoned to  me  from  the  Admiralty,  begging  me  to  cancel 
other  engagements  and  dine  with  him,  I  had  to  prepare 
myself  for  any  kind  of  bad  news. 

I  could  see,  when  he  came  into  the  club,  that  there  was 
something  on  his  mind,  but  we  had  no  opportunity  for 
private  conversation  during  dinner,  as  Maurice  Maitland 
attached  himself  to  our  table  for  first-hand  news  of  the 
Irish  rebellion.  I  had  imagined  that  George,  even  with  an 
Irish  estate,  an  Irish  upbringing  and  an  unmixed  Irish 
ancestry,  was  too  much  overlaid  with  his  English  associa- 
tions to  feel  more  than  academically  on  the  Irish  aspira- 
tions. To  see  him  after  a  holiday  in  Ireland,  where  he 
had  gone  to  fish  and  had  never  stirred  nearer  the  county 
Kerry  than  Dublin,  was  to  see  a  hillsman  made  suddenly 
mindful  of  the  hills  and  of  his  own  infancy.  Forgotten 
fires  of  racial  love  and  antagonism  had  been  blown  into 
life.  There  was  no  attempt  to  be  judicial;  he  had  arrived 
too  late  for  the  rebellion  (or  I  dare  swear  he  would  have 
had  a  hand  in  it),  he  was  not  concerned  with  the  bloodshed 


124  SONIA  MARRIED 

which  it  had  caused;  it  was  the  sight  and  stories  of  the 
repression  which  made  his  blood  boil  and  his  voice  ring. 

"So  much  for  Skeffington!"  he  cried.  "And  Casement 
prosecuted  by  Smith,  who  threatened  exactly  the  same 
tactics  before  the  war!  My  God!  I  wonder  when  you 
English  think  this  will  be  forgotten!  You've  seen  the 
sentences?  One  woman  was  carted  off  to  penal  servitude 
for  life.  Tor  life'  one  of  her  friends  kept  saying.  'But 
Ireland  was  free  for  three  days/  answered  the  woman. 
We've  a  rare  palate  for  phrases  in  Ireland.  How  soon 
do  you  imagine  that  phrase  will  be  forgotten?  I'm  seeing 
red  at  this  moment.  For  two  pins  I'd  join  our  young  friend 
Beresford  in  any  propaganda  against  this  country  that 
he  cared  to  start."  Then  he  caught  sight  of  Maitland's 
expression  of  shocked  perplexity.  "I  mean  it,  General. 
When  the  Huns  pretend  to  be  amazed  that  the  Belgians 
don't  eat  out  of  their  hands,  we're  righteously  disgusted 
at  the  hypocrisy  of  it.  On  my  honour,  you  English  are 
every  bit  as  dense  or  hypocritical  with  us." 

"But  the  trouble  is  over  now,  surely?"  Maitland  un- 
warily asked. 

"It  will  never  be  over  in  your  lifetime  or  mine!  Red- 
mond made  the  old  blunder  of  trusting  the  English,  he 
promised  a  united  front  in  Ireland,  when  the  war  broke 
out,  instead  of  holding  the  government  to  ransom.  And 
the  government  responded  by  scrapping  the  Home  Rule 
Act.  You've  lost  Ireland,  the  Nationalist  party's  dead  and 
damned,  henceforth  you'll  have  a  swelling  Sinn  Fein  army 
held  down  by  English  troops — as  in  Poland,  as  in  Alsace- 
Lorraine,  as  in  north  Italy  before  the  liberation.  And  I 
don't  envy  you  the  job  of  making  things  sweet  with 
America." 

Dinner  was  over  before  our  discussion  of  Ireland,  but, 
when  Maitland  left  us  to  return  to  the  War  Office,  the 
interruption  changed  the  current  of  George's  thoughts.  I 
was  not  sorry,  for  I  had  endured  two  nights  of  Irish 
debate  with  Grayle,  who  saw  in  the  rebellion  fresh  proof 


SONIA  O'RANE  125 

of  governmental  incompetence  and  new  need  for  a  change 
in  which  I  was  to  assist  him. 

"I  didn't  ask  you  here  to  listen  to  me  tub-thumping/' 
George  began  apologetically,  when  we  were  alone.  "How 
lately  have  you  seen  anything  of  the  O'Ranes?" 

I  told  him  of  the  meeting  in  Beresford's  flat. 

George  smiled  wanly. 

"They'll  kill  poor  old  Bertrand  between  them,"  he  said, 
"if  they  keep  up  this  racket  much  longer.  Raney  wrote 
to  say  that  he  was  coming  home  as  soon  as  term  was  over 
and  expected  Sonia  to  be  at  The  Sanctuary/  and  a  couple 
of  days  later  the  Merryon  woman  arrived  with  the  greater 
part  of  the  luggage  and  a  box  or  two  of  books.  She  hadn't 
come  to  stay,  but  he'd  sent  her  up  to  verify  a  few  refer- 
ences in  his  library  for  some  work  he  was  doing;  she  was 
going  back  to  help  him  finish  off  his  exam-papers  and  re- 
ports, and  they  were  coming  up  together  in  about  a  week's 
time.  This  took  place  yesterday.  Now,  I'll  say  at  once 
that  Raney 's  behaved  like  a  psychological  ostrich  over  that 
woman,  and  nobody  but  Raney  would  have  thought  it  any- 
thing but  outrageous  for  a  man  to  let  his  wife  stay  in 
London  and  calmly  accept  the  services  of  a  secretary — in 
his  wife's  place  and  against  her  wishes.  She'd  put  her 
eyes  on  sticks  for  him,  too,  Miss  Merryon  would;  and, 
if  Raney  doesn't  know  it,  you  bet  Sonia  does.  Well,  I 
think  it  was  partly  jealousy;  Sonia  was  furious  at  the  idea 
of  anyone  else  being  near  her  husband.  Partly  it  was 
shame;  when  the  girl  came  in  with  Raney's  belongings, 
arranging  this,  ordering  that,  verifying  the  other,  you  may 
be  sure  that  Sonia  knew  very  well  that  she  was  letting 
someone  else  do  her  job.  And  partly  it  was  because  she 
couldn't  get  her  own  way.  The  combined  result  was  a 
first-class  row,  in  which  she  said  that  the  girl  was  Raney's 
mistress  and  told  her  that  she  wouldn't  have  her  in  the 
house.  It  wasn't  mere  words.  She  escorted  her  to  the 
door,  where  the  taxi-man  was  wrestling  with  the  luggage, 
slammed  it  behind  her  and  pulled  a  chest  against  it.  On 
the  business  principle  of  having  everything  in  black  and 


126  SONIA  MARRIED 

white,  she  then  wrote  a  descriptive  account  of  it  all  to 
Raney,  which  will  no  doubt  be  read  aloud  to  him  at 
breakfast  to-morrow  by  Miss  Hilda  Merryon." 

He  mopped  his  forehead  and  sent  a  waiter  to  fetch  him 
some  water. 

"And  what  are  you  doing?"  I  asked. 

"What  can  I  do  ?  Raney's  not  going  to  be  told  that  this 
woman's  his  mistress;  he'll  probably  make  Sonia  apologise 
to  them  both — or  try  to ;  and  he  certainly  won't  let  her  be 
turned  out.  I  should  think  ...  I  don't  know,  but  I  should 
think  that,  on  the  day  he  comes  back,  Sonia  will  try  to  run 
away  again,  and,  if  he  doesn't  stop  her  by  main  force, 
by  using  all  the  authority  he's  got  and  all  the  brutality 
he's  capable  of  exhibiting,  he'll  lose  her  for  good.  Sonia's 
pretty  well  worked  up,  too.  So  am  I.  These  young  people 
are  preparing  an  early  grave  for  me;  it's  getting  on  my 
nerves." 

"But  her  parents — "  I  began. 

My  unfinished  suggestion  was  received  with  a  silent  smile, 
which  was  perhaps  the  cruellest  and  most  comprehensive 
criticism  ever  passed  on  Sir  Roger  and  Lady  Dainton. 

I  was  in  the  smoking-room  at  the  House  the  following 
night,  talking  to  Vincent  Grayle,  when  George's  card  was 
brought  in,  and  I  went  out  to  see  him. 

"I've  just  left  'The  Sanctuary,'  "  he  said.  "And  I  thought 
I'd  report  progress.  Raney  got  her  letter  all  right  and 
sent  very  much  the  reply  I  should  have  expected.  He's 
pretty  well  worked  up  now.  Sonia's  got  to  apologise,  and 
he  orders  her  to  receive  Miss  Merryon.  It  was  an  ulti- 
matum, if  there  ever  was  one.  Sonia —  she  was  like  I 
remember  her  the  last  time  we  met  before  she  broke  off 
her  engagement  with  Jim  Loring — every  nerve  tingling. 
She  stalked  to  the  telephone  and  rang  up  Beresford,  in- 
forming me  over  her  shoulder  that  she  would  not  have 
that  woman  in  the  house,  even  if  she  had  to  bring  friends 
in  to  turn  her  out.  Fortunately  Beresford  was  not  at  home. 
Then  she  rang  up  this  place  and  tried  to  get  hold  of  Grayle 


SONIA  O'RANE  127 

— 'Mrs.  O'Rane.  Most  urgent/  Again,  fortunately,  the 
reply  came  back  that  Grayle  was  engaged " 

I  looked  at  my  watch  and  interrupted  him  to  ask  when 
the  message  had  been  sent. 

"Oh,  this  moment — half  an  hour  ago.  It  was  just  before 
I  left  to  come  here.  Well,  we're  likely  to  have  the  pretty 
scene  of  Raney  driving  up  to  the  door  and  finding  himself 
barricaded  out  by  his  own  wife.  Beresford  can't  do  any- 
thing very  active,  but  Grayle " 

"You  needn't  fear  him,"  I  said. 

When  the  telephone  message  was  brought  into  the  Smok- 
ing-Room,  Grayle  glanced  at  the  paper  and  said  that  he 
was  engaged.  I  did  not  know,  of  course,  who  was  trying 
to  speak  to  him,  but  the  messenger  repeated  that  the  call 
was  "most  urgent."  At  this  Grayle  grew  impatient  and 
said  again  and  very  deliberately,  "I — am — engaged"  Then 
we  resumed  our  interrupted  conversation;  he  was  crossing 
to  France  almost  immediately  on  a  visit  to  General  Head- 
quarters and  would  be  away  for  several  days.  He  had 
promised  to  introduce  a  deputation  of  his  constituents  to 
one  of  the  Ministers  and  wanted  me  to  act  for  him  in  his 
absence. 

"She's  gone  just  too  far  with  him,"  I  said,  "and  he's 
lost  his  temper.  But  there  mustn't  be  a  scene,  whatever 
happens.  You'd  better  tell  O'Rane  to  see  you  before  he 
goes  home;  explain  the  state  of  mind  she's  in.  ...  And, 
George,  for  the  love  of  Heaven,  get  hold  of  Mrs.  O'Rane 
and  knock  some  sense  into  her  head — you  say  she'll  stand 
a  good  deal  from  you.  This  is  becoming  frankly  intoler- 
able." 

Then  we  left  the  House ;  he  made  his  way  to  "The  Sanc- 
tuary," while  I  drove  home.  Had  we  changed  places,  he 
would  have  been  more  successful  in  his  mission,  for,  as  I 
paid  off  my  driver,  Mrs.  O'Rane  hurried  up  and  engaged 
him.  Whether  she  recognised  me  or  not  I  cannot  tell ;  but 
I  had  nothing  to  say  to  her  and  I  was  at  pains  to  avoid 
an  encounter.  She  was  in  evening  dress,  I  remember,  walk- 
ing eastwards  along  Knightsbridge,  and  I  wondered  sudden- 


128  SONIA  MARRIED 

ly  whether  she  had  been  calling  on  Grayle  in  Mil  ford 
Square.  Then  I  remembered  that  Grayle  was  still  at  the 
House,  when  I  left.  As  the  taxi  drove  away  I  asked 
myself,  not  for  the  first  time,  whether  I  had  not  enough 
work  and  worries  of  my  own  without  having  to  play  the 
double  part  of  bland  bachelor  uncle  and  private  detective. 

A  week  later  O'Rane  came  up  to  London  and  called  on 
George  at  the  Admiralty.  He  was  so  far  amenable  to  advice 
that  he  went  alone  to  "The  Sanctuary"  and  talked  for  an 
hour  with  his  wife,  though  they  parted  without  reaching  a 
compromise  and  on  the  reiterated  understanding  that,  if 
Miss  Hilda  Merryon  set  foot  in  "The  Sanctuary,"  Mrs. 
O'Rane  would  leave  and  never  return.  I  met  him  myself 
later  in  the  day  at  the  House  and  was  relieved  to  find 
him  preoccupied  with  other  cares.  He  had  called  on  Beres- 
ford  and  been  privileged  to  hear  the  proofs  of  that  inde- 
fatigable pamphleteer's  latest  composition.  It  was  entitled, 
I  believe,  "Lettres  de  Cachet,"  and  contained  a  bitter  attack 
on  petty  tyranny  and  misuse  of  authority  as  practised  by 
the  army.  O'Rane  had  tried  to  get  the  article  withdrawn, 
but  Beresford  was  inflamed  and  fanatical  with  memories 
of  his  own  treatment  in  prison  and  of  the  attempt  to  silence 
his  mouth  by  the  exercise  of  military  discipline.  I  fancy, 
too,  that  he  was  puffed  up  with  his  own  initial  victory  and 
believed  that,  so  far  from  seeking  opportunity  for  another 
encounter,  the  agents  of  government  were  rubbing  their 
bruises  and  keeping  out  of  the  way. 

"I  couldn't  move  him  an  inch,"  O'Rane  had  to  admit. 
"I'm  sorry,  for  I  don't  want  to  see  him  killed.  .  .  .  And  I — 
I  must  have  been  extraordinarily  like  him  when  I  was  a 
kid  of  about  fifteen,  and  the  whole  world  was  a  black 
dungeon  of  iniquity  and  injustice,  and  I  had  to  keep 
hold  of  myself  with  both  hands  for  fear  of  murdering 
someone.  .  .  .  The  first  time  I  talked  to  Beresford  I  agreed 
with  most  of  what  he  said;  I  could  feel  myself  going  white, 
if  you  understand  me;  we  got  emotionally  drunk  together. 
And  then  I  saw  that  he  wasn't  going  to  do  any  more  good 
than  I  should  have  done  at  fifteen,  if  I'd  yielded  to  the 


SONIA  O'RANE  129 

impulse  of  killing  a  man.  ...  I  felt  that,  if  someone  could 
relieve  the  shadows  a  bit  ...  I'm  not  giving  in  yet." 

We  were  interrupted  by  a  division  bell,  and  I  gave  him 
an  arm  to  the  lobby.  Then  Bertrand  carried  him  off  to 
dinner,  and  I  made  my  way  to  the  Berkeley,  where  I  had 
promised  to  meet  George  and  his  cousin,  Lady  Loring. 
Arriving  a  few  minutes  before  my  time,  I  was  smoking 
a  cigarette  in  the  hall  when  I  caught  sight  of  Grayle 
and  crossed  over  to  speak  to  him.  He  was  scowling  in 
an  arm-chair  facing  the  door,  with  his  eyes  impatiently 
fixed  on  his  watch  and  an  evening  paper  on  his  knees. 

"You've  not  started  yet,  then,"  I  said.  "If  you're  going 
to  be  in  London  to-morrow,  I'll  give  you  back  your  deputa- 
tion." 

"I  leave  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,"  he  answered 
shortly.  "What  d'you  make  the  time  ?  Five  to  eight  ?  On 
the  stroke  of  eight  I  leave.  I  don't  wait  more  than  half 
an  hour  for  any  woman." 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment  longer;  then  pulled  himself 
slowly  erect  and  limped  with  the  resolute  fixity  of  ill  temper 
to  the  cloak-room.  I  picked  up  the  paper  and  was  beginning 
to  read  it,  when  he  limped  back  with  his  coat  and  cap  on, 
buttoning  his  gloves. 

"If  Mrs.  O'Rane  turns  up  while  you're  here,  give  her 
that,  will  you?"  he  said,  throwing  an  open  envelope  on 
the  table.  "You  might  say  that  I've  gone  on." 

Protruding  from  the  envelope  was  a  theatre  ticket. 

"Aren't  you  dining?"  I  asked. 

"I  had  a  whiskey  and  soda  while  I  was  waiting,"  he 
answered.  "Can't  hang  about  indefinitely,  you  know.  It's 
Eric  Lane's  new  play.  The  thing  starts  at  eight  of  all 
ungodly  hours,  and  I  want  to  see  some  of  the  show." 
I  thought  it  unnecessary  to  remind  him  that  we  had  met 
at  the  identical  theatre  some  ten  days  before.  "If  a  woman 
can't  have  the  decency  to  come  in  time — Ah!" 

He  interrupted  himself  as  Mrs.  O'Rane  came  in,  stood 
looking  round  for  a  moment  and  hurried  forward,  smiling 
at  two  or  three  friends  on  the  way. 


130  SONIA  MARRIED 

"You  were  very  nearly  late,"  she  said,  nodding  at  his  cap. 
"If  I'd  had  to  wait — Well,  I  suppose  Mr.  Stornaway 
would  have  taken  pity  on  me,  however  much  he  hates  me. 
The  spectacle  of  a  young  distressed  female  simply  fainting 
for  a  cocktail — did  you  remember  to  order  my  special  cock- 
tail?" she  asked  Grayle. 

"You  are  late,"  he  observed,  without  regard  to  her 
question. 

"I?  But  that's  too  abominable!  If  you're  not  going 
to  be  sweet  to  me,  I  shall  go  straight  home  and  never  speak 
to  you  again.  Late,  indeed!  I  didn't  get  home  till  after 
seven,  but  I  had  a  hot  bath  and  dressed  and  disposed  of  four 
people  on  the  telephone,  all  by  seven-thirty " 

"Dinner  was  ordered  for  seven-thirty,"  Grayle  inter- 
rupted. 

Mrs.  O'Rane  puckered  her  lips  mischievously  and  laid 
one  ringer  on  them  to  enjoin  silence. 

"Are  you  listening  to  my  story?"  she  asked.  "If  you'd 
just  be  patient  and  not  pretend  you're  working  out  the  times 
for  an  infantry  advance — "  She  turned  to  me  with  a  quick 
smile.  "How  long  would  you  say  it  took  to  get  here  from 
'The  Sanctuary/  Mr.  Stornaway?" 

"That  depends  how  you  go,"  I  said.  "It's  no  time  in 
a  taxi." 

She  clapped  her  hands  in  delight. 

"That's  what  I  always  say!  When  anyone  finds  fault 
with  Westminster  or  the  Embankment — fancy  finding  fault 
with  the  Embankment!  It's  like  being  compromised  with 
the  Albert  Memorial.  But  people  do,  you  know;  the  Em- 
bankment, I  mean;  they  say  it's  not  healthy — well,  when 
they  find  fault,  I  always  say,  'Ah,  but  it's  so  central.  You 
can  jump  into  a  taxi  and  get  anywhere  in  no  time!'  Just 
what  you  said,  Mr.  Stornaway.  Well,  as  dinner  was  at 
half-past  seven  and  it  took  me  no  time  to  get  here,  there  was 
no  point  in  leaving  the  house  before  half-past  seven,  was 
there?" 

Grayle  was  nodding  at  each  new  development  in  her 
rather  diffuse  story,  but  there  were  hard,  unamiable  lines 


SONIA  O'RANE  131 

from  nose  to  mouth,  and  I  fancied  that  her  smiles  and 
tricks  and  absurdities  were  not  amusing  him.  As  she  paused 
for  want  of  breath,  he  took  a  step  backward. 

"Don't  go  away,  when  I'm  talking  to  you!"  she  cried, 
catching  him  by  the  sleeve.  "It's  rude,  to  begin  with, — 
and  you  know  you're  always  sorry  after  you've  been  rude 
to  me.  Oh!  the  times  you've  had  to  call  with  a  taxi  full 
of  {lowers !  I  will  say  this  for  myself,  I'm  very  forgiv- 
ing— ;  and,  in  the  second  place,  you're  missing  the  real 
pathos  of  the  story,  what  the  Americans  call  the  sob- 
stuff.  I  left  home  at  seven-thirty,  as  I  must  have  told 
you  before,  but  you  will  keep  interrupting;  I  walked  to  the 
Houses  of  Parliament — no  taxi — ;  I  persevered  down 
Whitehall — no  taxi ;  fainting  with  fatigue  and  weeping  from 
sheer  mortification,  I  dragged  one  foot  after  another— for 
the  honour  of  England,  you  know — up  the  Haymarket — 
no  taxi — ;  and,  believe  me  or  believe  me  not,  as — you — like, 
I  never  saw  a  taxi  till  I  got  here.  Then  an  angel-creature 
drove  up  and  said,  'Taxi,  miss?'  and  it  was  almost  more 
than  I  could  bear.  I  wanted  to  jump  in  and  drive  round 
and  round  the  Park  to  shew  people  that  there  was  just 
one  taxi  left  in  the  world  and  that  I'd  got  it.  Nothing  but 
the  thought  of  this  wretched  play  brought  me  here  at  all — 
the  play  and  the  cocktail;  you  must  admit  that,  if  anyone 
ever  deserved  a  cocktail,  it's  me.  And,  if  you  say  you 
haven't  ordered  me  one  or  that  they're  bad  for  me,  I  shall 
go  home." 

She  handed  me  her  gloves  and  held  out  a  bag  to  Grayle, 
as  she  began  to  take  off  her  cloak. 

"Now,  is  that  the  whole  story?"  he  asked. 

"That's  a  synopsis,"  she  said.  "I  can  elaborate  it,  of 
course.  Some  of  the  people  I  met  on  the  way " 

"I  think  we  can  dispense  with  that.  Dinner  was  ordered 
for  seven-thirty,  and  the  play  begins  at  eight.  I  was 
starting  out,  as  you  came  in,  but  I  waited  to  hear  if  you 
had  anything  to  say,  any  explanation  to  give.  Stornaway 
has  your  ticket,  and  the  table's  that  one  in  the  first  window. 
I  may  see  you  later." 


132  SONIA  MARRIED 

Mrs.  O'Rane  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  without  under- 
standing; then  her  mouth  opened  slowly. 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed. 

"Good-bye." 

"Come  back  this  instant!" 

Grayle  turned  his  back  on  us  with  a  perfunctory  bow 
and  limped  away. 

"If  you  don't  come  back,  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again !" 
she  cried. 

Whether  he  heard  her  or  not  made  no  difference  to  his 
steady  progress.  As  he  reached  the  door,  Mrs.  O'Rane 
turned  nonchalantly  to  me  with  a  smile  and  a,  shrug.  A 
moment  later  she  glanced  casually  over  her  shoulder  to 
see  if  he  was  coming  back.  A  moment  later  still,  with 
amazement  in  her  eyes,  she  was  hurrying  after  him  into 
the  street. 

When  George  Oakleigh  arrived  with  his  cousin  at  a 
quarter  past  eight,  he  told  me  with  some  concern  that 
he  had  forgotten  to  book  a  table.  We  were  very  comfort- 
ably accommodated,  however,  in  the  first  window. 


For  three  weeks  I  endured  an  unsought  holiday  in  bed 
with  influenza  at  the  Hyde  Park  Hotel.  In  my  absence 
everything  seemed  to  have  gone  on  very  much  as  before, 
and,  when  I  met  O'Rane  at  the  House  on  the  eve  of  his 
return  to  Melton,  he  told  me  that  he,  too,  had  spent  the 
recess  in  London  with  his  wife  and  that  Miss  Merryon 
had  been  packed  off  to  the  sea  for  a  change  of  air.  Out- 
wardly all  relations  were  amicable,  but  Bertrand  told  me 
afterwards  that  Mrs.  O'Rane  consistently  displayed  the 
guarded  civility  of  a  wife  who  had  discovered  her  husband's 
infidelity,  but  decides  to  stay  with  him  rather  than  create  a 
scandal. 

"Are  you  going  back  to  Melton,  then  ?"  I  asked  O'Rane. 

"Yes.  I  haven't  found  anything  else  suitable  so  far. 
You  see,  I  feel  it  must  be  war-work  of  some  kind ;  and  it 


SONIA  O'RANE  133 

must  be  paid.  I  don't  seem  much  nearer  solvency  than 
when  I  came  back  from  France  twelve  months  ago." 

I  had  a  vision  of  "The  Sanctuary,"  as  I  had  seen  it  at 
the  O'Ranes'  house-warming,  crammed  to  overflowing  with 
their  friends  and  his  chance  acquaintances.  I  knew  some- 
thing of  his  prodigal  generosity  and  of  his  wife's  no  less 
prodigal  extravagance ;  and  I  could  form  no  idea  how  they 
kept  their  heads  above  water.  Bertrand,  of  course,  con- 
tributed to  the  up-keep  of  the  household;  O'Rane  had  his 
salary  as  a  Member  and  some  trifle  from  Melton ;  his  wife 
possessed  a  few  hundreds  of  her  own,  eked  out  with  chance 
gifts  from  admiring  friends.  Sir  Adolphus  Erskine,  the 
great  financier,  would  give  her  a  set  of  furs  or  a  pearl 
necklace,  Lord  Pennington  would  send  her  a  case  of  cham- 
pagne out  of  some  unexpected  discovery  at  an  auction,  but 
this  hardly  helped  to  appease  the  tradesmen. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  can  expect,"  I  said. 

O'Rane  frowned  in  perplexity. 

"I  made  a  lot  of  money  and  I  saved  a  lot  of  money 
before  the  war,"  he  said,  "but  I  don't  seem  able  to  do  it 
now.  .  .  .  When  other  people  ...  I  know  it's  impracti- 
cable to  go  out  and  give  a  loaf  to  everyone  who's  hungry,  but 
it's  frightfully  hard  to  refuse  when  you  do  in  fact  meet 
them.  I  daresay  it's  mad,  but  George  and  everyone  will 
tell  you  that  I've  always  been  tolerably  mad,  and  I'm  afraid 
I've  got  much  madder  since  the  war."  He  gave  one  of  his 
whimsical,  Puck-like  laughs  and  then  added  soberly,  "Poor 
Sonia !" 

"I  hope  you're  in  a  state  of  grace,"  I  said.  "You  know,  a 
madman  can  be  very  cruel." 

He  looked  into  my  eyes,  and  I  shivered;  for,  though  I 
knew  him  to  be  sightless,  he  seemed  to  be  looking  into  my 
soul. 

"Sometimes  I  feel  there's  not  room  for  compromise  in 
this  life,"  he  said. 

"You  are — thirty?  I'm  afraid  I'm  a  quarter  of  a  century 
older,  O'Rane." 


i34  SONIA  MARRIED 

"Thank  God!  there's  room  for  inconsistency,"  he 
laughed. 

I  was  at  my  office  the  following  afternoon  when  George 
Oakleigh  telephoned  to  say  that  his  uncle  wished  to  see  me 
at  once  on  a  matter  of  urgency;  could  I  make  it  con- 
venient to  come  round  immediately?  I  replied  that  it  was 
exceedingly  inconvenient,  but  that,  if  he  could  play  truant 
from  the  Admiralty,  I  could  absent  myself  equally  well 
from  my  own  department. 

"Thank  God  you  can  come !"  he  exclaimed  with  disquiet- 
ing fervour.  "It's  a  bad  business." 

I  arrived  at  "The  Sanctuary"  to  find  all  silent  and  tense 
with  expectant  tragedy.  Bertrand  sprawled  with  slackened 
limbs  on  a  long  wicker  chair,  an  untasted  drink  by  his 
side  and  an  unlighted  cigar  in  his  mouth.  George  was 
looking  bleakly  out  of  the  window,  with  his  right  hand 
gripping  his  left  wrist  behind  his  back;  the  afternoon  sun 
exposed  every  line  and  wrinkle  of  his  face,  and  I  found 
him  ten  years  older,  effortless  and  numbed. 

"Tell  me  what's  happened,"  I  said,  as  I  closed  the 
door. 

Bertrand  looked  at  me  for  a  moment,  though  I  could  see 
that  his  attention  was  wandering,  and  then  turned  to  his 
nephew. 

"You'd  better  go  back  to  him,"  he  suggested.  "I  don't 
think  we've  got  anything  more  to  say  to  each  other." 

The  second  closing  of  the  door  was  followed  by  a  long 
silence. 

"Tell  me  what's  happened,  Bertrand,"  I  repeated. 

"Oh,  nothing!"  He  gave  a  barking  cough  of  mordant 
bitterness.  "I  told  George  it  wasn't  fair  to  drag  you  in, 
when  you  had  in  fact  been  spared  it.  David  came  back 
unexpectedly  this  afternoon  to  find  his  wife  in  Beresford's 
arms."  He  buried  his  face  in  tremulous  hands.  "My  God ! 
my  God !  They've  not  been  married  a  year !  And  a  blind 
man!" 

When  Bertrand  is  cynical,  I  find  him  tiresomely  cynical; 
not  content  with  condoning  human  depravity,  he  seems  to 


SONIA  O'RANE  135 

take  personal  credit  to  himself  for  it.  When  he  is  human- 
ly moved,  I  find  him  unnerving. 

"Tell  me  the  whole  story,"  I  said,  "before  I  try  to  com- 
ment on  it." 

"Comment  on  it  ?"  Bertrand  echoed  and  sat  silent,  staring 
at  a  picture  on  the  opposite  wall. 

The  story,  when  it  came,  was  old  and  simple.  The 
end  of  the  holidays  found  the  O'Ranes  as  undecided  about 
the  future  as  at  the  beginning ;  it  had  been  easier,  I  presume, 
not  to  discuss  it,  and  no  word  had  passed  until  the  evening 
before.  Then  O'Rane  had  announced  his  approaching  re- 
turn to  Melton,  and  from  that  the  game,  encounter,  what 
you  will,  had  developed  automatically.  His  wife  begged 
him  not  to  go,  hinted  that  he  had  promised  to  stay  in 
London  and  after  the  usual  interchange  was  undecided 
whether  she  would  keep  him  company.  It  depended  .  .  . 
There  followed  the  expected  debate  on  Miss  Merryon. 
O'Rane  was  taking  her  to  Melton  whether  his  wife  came 
or  not,  as  he  needed  the  services  of  a  typist ;  Mrs.  O'Rane 
would  not  go,  if  "that  woman"  went,  and,  if  O'Rane  went 
with  her  alone,  he  knew  the  consequences.  .  .  . 

"Then  I  went  to  bed/'  said  Bertrand,  pressing  his  hands 
to  his  head.  "I  imagine  they  must  have  had  an  unpre- 
cedented row,  and  this  morning  O'Rane  went  off  to  Water- 
loo, leaving  his  wife  like  a  spitting  cat.  I  slunk  out  of 
the  house  as  soon  as  possible;  I  didn't  want  the  quarrel  at 
second-hand.  Sometime  this  afternoon  O'Rane  came  back. 
When  he  got  to  Waterloo,  he  felt  that  he  couldn't  part 
from  his  wife  for  three  months  on  such  a  note.  He  came 
back  to  make  friends,  to  see  if  they  couldn't  arrive  at  some 
modus  vivendi.  .  .  .  He  felt  his  way  round  the  library; 
it  was  deserted;  felt  his  way  round  the  hall  and  found 
her  umbrella  in  the  stand;  went  upstairs.  Her  door  was 
locked,  and  he  tapped  on  it,  begging  her  to  let  him  in.  She 
shouted  out  that  he  wasn't  to  come  in;  and  he  stood  there 
minute  after  minute,  praying  her  to  remember  their  love, 
to  forgive  him,  to  be  reasonable,  generous,  to  forget  their 
wretched  quarrel.  Never  a  sound  came  from  inside  the 


136  SONIA  MARRIED 

room.  He  had  worked  himself  up  until  he  was  sweating 
with  emotion.  When  he  stopped,  there  was  utter  silence. 
Then  he  heard  a  cough.  .  .  ." 

Bertrand  paused  to  sip  the  drink  at  his  elbow.  It  was 
not  Sonia's  cough;  it  was  the  bursting  cough  of  a  man 
who  had  been  trying  in  a  long  agony  of  suffocation  to 
repress  it.  At  the  sound  something  primitive  and  over- 
mastering took  possession  of  O'Rane.  He  stepped  back  and 
flung  himself  against  the  door,  but  it  was  old,  and  the 
weight  of  his  body  only  wrung  a  hollow  groan  from  its 
solidity;  within  all  was  still  silent.  Again  and  again  he 
charged  the  door  with  his  shoulder  until  one  panel  split 
and  broke  in,  and  the  lock  creaked  in  outrage.  Insensible 
to  physical  pain  which  was  quickly  maddening  his  brain, 
he  took  a  last  flying  leap  which  wrenched  handle  and  lock 
from  the  wood-work  and  sent  him  to  measure  his  length 
on  the  floor. 

The  same  uncanny  silence  greeted  his  entrance.  He  drew 
himself  upright,  rubbing  his  bruised  shoulder,  and  embarked 
on  what  from  Bertrand's  account  was  truly  the  grimmest 
game  of  Blind  Man's  Buff.  With  the  muscles  of  his  back 
and  arms  braced  to  resist  an  attack,  he  advanced  slowly  with 
arms  outstretched  and  body  bent,  like  a  foot-ball  player 
waiting  to  collar  his  man.  In  the  first  half  of  the  room  his 
groping  hands  touched  only  the  familiar  tables  and  chairs, 
but  with  every  yard  forward  he  was  uncovering  a  retreat 
for  the  adversary.  Retracing  his  steps,  he  kicked  the  door 
closed,  pushed  a  bed  against  it  and  advanced  once  more 
towards  the  window.  In  the  unbroken  silence  he  had  to 
keep  stopping  suddenly  for  a  half-heard  sound  of  hurried 
breathing,  but  his  own  pulses  were  hammering  so  loudly 
that  he  could  not  trust  his  ears.  Nearer  and  nearer  to 
the  window  he  crept,  until  an  unnamed  sense  told  him  that 
he  was  within  touch  of  a  human  body ;  as  he  paused,  there 
was  a  shiver  followed  by  a  sharp  intake  of  breath;  some- 
one's nerves  were  breaking  under  the  ordeal.  The  waving 
arms  swept  forward  and  closed  on  a  woman's  shoulders. 

"Sonia!"  he  panted  and  could  say  no  more. 


SONIA  O'RANE  137 

For  a  moment  longer  the  silence  continued;  then  from 
behind  her  came  the  foot-shuffle  of  the  man  whom  she  had 
been  shielding.  O'Rane's  hands  dropped,  and  he  sprang 
beyond  her,  only  to  bark  his  knuckles  on  the  wall,  as  his 
unseen  quarry  doubled  and  ran ;  there  was  an  instant's  vague 
chase,  the  sound  of  a  lame  man  sparing  his  injured  leg,  the 
squeak  of  rolling  castors,  as  the  bed  was  dragged  back  from 
the  door,  a  scratching  for  the  handle  that  was  no  longer 
there  and  finally  the  echoing  slam  of  the  door  itself.  O'Rane 
sprawled  once  more  on  the  floor,  as  his  foot  met  a  rucked 
billow  of  carpet ;  the  hurried  limp  grew  distant  and  faded ; 
there  followed  the  slam  of  a  second  door,  and  the  house 
returned  to  its  afternoon  silence. 

What  either  found  to  say  to  the  other  neither  Bertrand 
nor  I  had  any  means  of  guessing.  -» 

"She's  gone,"  he  told  me  hollowly.  "I  saw  her  driving 
away,  as  I  came  back  from  the  House — just  before  we 
sent  for  you.  O'Rane  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
library  like  a — like  a  man  in  catalepsy.  George  came  in 
a  moment  later,  and  we  had  the  story  as  I've  given  it  to 
you."  He  paused  and  breathed  deeply.  "I'm  getting  too 
old  for  this  sort  of  thing,  Stornaway ;  my — my  brain  strikes 
work  at  a  time  like  this,  you  must  tell  me  what  we've  got 
to  do.  There'll  be  murder,  if  he  ever  gets  his  hands  on 
Beresford,  and  we've  got  to  stop  that.  I'd  murder  the 
fellow  myself,  if  I  could,  but  we  can't  have  David  hanging 
for  him.  And  we  must  do  something  for  David." 

With  a  quavering  hand  he  picked  up  the  tumbler  from 
the  table  by  his  side  and  sipped  its  contents  mechanically. 
His  eyes  were  half-closed,  and  his  mind  at  least  was  asleep 
with  very  exhaustion.  My  own  worked  feverishly  with 
utter  want  of  concentration.  I  told  myself  that  I  might 
have  expected  this  after  my  surprise  meeting  in  Beresford's 
flat,  that  it  had  been  going  on  for  Heaven  knows  how  many 
weeks ;  then  that  none  of  this  was  to  the  point,  that  O'Rane 
was  in  a  bath  of  liquid  fire,  that  something  must  be  done ; 
lastly — yet  my  first  thought  and  appreciation — that  none 
of  us  knew  what  to  do,  that  nothing  could  be  done. 


138  SONIA  MARRIED 

I  have  no  idea  how  long  I  stood  staring  at  Bertrand's 
shrunken  face  and  closed  eyes.  Death  had  left  his  finger- 
prints on  the  big,  self-indulgent  face  when  the  old  man  had 
his  stroke  at  the  beginning  of  the  war.  I  remember 
wondering  how  many  more  rounds  he  would  survive.  .  .  . 
Yet  he  had  lived  fully,  powerfully  and  pleasurably  for  more 
than  his  allotted  span;  young  O'Rane  was  little  more  than 
thirty  and  he  had  already  undergone  what  would  have 
broken  men  of  less  heroic  spirit. 

Instinctively  I  moved  towards  the  door,  and  at  the  slight 
sound  Bertrand  opened  his  eyes  and  asked  what  I  was 
going  to  do. 

"God  knows!"  I  answered. 

Instinctively  I  found  myself  walking  down  the  stairs 
which  Beresford  and  O'Rane  had  descended  so  precipitously 
an  hour  or  two  before.  The  same  strained  air  of  expect- 
ancy hung  over  the  passages  and  hall,  and,  when  I  pushed 
aside  the  curtain  and  entered  the  library,  George  started 
like  a  surprised  criminal.  The  room  was  in  twilight,  and 
it  took  my  eyes  several  moments  to  grow  accustomed  to 
the  change  from  the  sunset  glow  upstairs.  Then  I  caught 
sight  of  O'Rane  sprawling  on  the  sofa,  motionless  and 
silent;  his  hair  was  dishevelled,  his  clothes  dusty  on  one 
side,  and  I  could  see  white  skin  and  a  stain  of  blood 
through  a  rent  in  one  trouser-knee. 

"It's — Stornaway,"  George  explained. 

For  a  moment  O'Rane  seemed  not  to  have  heard;  then 
he  said: 

"Thanks.  Thanks  to  you  both.  Later  on,  perhaps.  .  .  . 
Just  now  I'd  rather " 

I  exchanged  glances  with  George,  who  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  rose  silently  to  his  feet.  O'Rane  collected 
himself  and  walked  to  the  door,  fortified  by  the  routine  of 
social  convention,  as  though  he  were  speeding  a  dinner- 
guest  on  his  way.  I  passed  by  the  flame-coloured  curtain 
and  turned  the  handle  of  the  door,  looking  round  to  recap- 
ture the  vision  seen  one  night  when  O'Rane  caught  his 
.wife  to  his  heart,  while  I  looked  on  and  envied  them 


SONIA  O'RANE  139 

something  that  had  never  been  granted  to  me.  There  was 
no  response  to  my  pull,  but,  at  the  rattle,  O'Rane  stepped 
forward  with  a  muttered  apology,  pulling  a  cumbrous  key 
from  his  pocket  and  feeling  for  the  lock  with  the  fingers 
of  his  other  hand.  George  and  I  passed  into  the  street,  the 
door  closed  behind  us,  and  I  caught  the  sound  of  rusty 
wards  turning  in  an  unaccustomed  lock.  George  put  his 
arm  through  mine  and  asked  if  I  was  going  back  to  the 
House. 

"I  shall  dine  at  the  Club,"  I  said ;  and  I  wondered  how 
either  of  us  could  speak  so  conventionally. 

We  walked  the  length  of  Millbank  in  silence. 

"You'd  have  thought  he  had  enough  to  put  up  with 
already,  wouldn't  you  ?"  George  asked  dispassionately ;  then, 
with  a  tremor  in  his  voice,  "God  in  heaven !  it's  a  smash-up 
for  Raney!  I  didn't  think  she  was  capable  of  it,  I've 
known  her  all  her  life,  I'd  have  sworn  she'd  have  pulled 
up  in  time.  ...  Of  course,  she's  always  had  to  have  people 
fluttering  round  her  and  paying  her  compliments,  and  I 
wasn't  a  bit  surprised  to  find  a  boys'  school  of  young 
Guardees  hanging  about  the  house  the  moment  she'd  moved 
into  it.  It  was  the  same  when  she  was  engaged  to  Jim 
Loring — God  knows,  she  knocked  a  big  enough  hole  in 
his  life,  you'd  have  thought  there'd  be  some  reactive  effect 
on  her.  .  .  .  But,  on  my  soul,  because  she'd  been  doing 
it  so  long,  I  thought  she  could  be  trusted.  I  thought  she 
really  loved  Raney,  I  thought  he  was  the  only  person  who 
could  manage  her.  .  .  .  He  would  treat  her  like  a  man. 
'No  one's  ever  let  up  on  me.  Trust  people,  and  they'll  re- 
pay your  trust.  .  .  .'  All  that  balderdash.  .  .  .  It's  suc- 
ceeded amazingly  well  with  men,  he  can  do  what  he  likes 
with  them.  But  women  must  be  fundamentally  different. 
.  .  .  We're  both  bachelors,  of  course.  .  .  .  But  I  always 
feel  there  was  a  lot  to  be  said  for  Petruchio.  Raney  loved 
her  most  kinds  of  ways,  and  she  loved  him  on  and  off  in 
some  fashion  for  years;  he  really  only  won  her,  when  he 
was  frankly  brutal  to  her — I  had  the  story  from  both,  so 
I  know;  she  was  caught  in  Austria,  like  you,  and  he 


140  SONIA  MARRIED 

smuggled  her  back  and  shewed  her  pretty  clearly  who'd 
got  the  stronger  personality;  then  she  married  him  after 
he'd  gone  blind,  when  all  our  emotions  were  in  tatters; 
and,  having  once  married  her,  he  seemed  to  think  that 
mere  love  and  trust  were  enough  to  keep  her.  I  don't 
know ;  I've  never  had  to  live  with  a  woman ;  I  can't  help 
feeling,  though,  that,  just  as  he  won  her  by  main  force, 
so  he  could  only  hope  to  keep  her  by  main  force.  And  he 
didn't  even  give  her  the  'mere  love  and  trust'  I've  been 
talking  about ;  he  trusted  her  all  right,  but  I  think  the  kind 
of  practical  Christianity  that  he  tried  to  set  up  was  too 
much  to  ask  of  anyone — let  alone  a  spoilt  darling  like  Sonia. 
.  .  .  He's  always  been  so  infernally  uncompromising,  it's  his 
strength  and  his  weakness ;  it's  because  he  was  uncompromis- 
ing that  he's  kept  alive  and  it's  because  he's  been  uncom- 
promising with  her  that  he's  brought  this  on  himself." 

We  had  walked  up  Whitehall  and  were  waiting  for  a  gap 
in  the  traffic  by  the  Admiralty  Arch. 

"But  this  is  all  ancient  history,  George,"  I  reminded  him. 
"What  are  we  going  to  do  ?" 

"To  soften  the  blow?  Nothing.  We  can't  do  anything. 
Sonia's  cleared  out,  I  suppose  she'  gone  off  to  join  Beres- 
ford.  Well,  Bertrand  thinks  Raney's  equal  to  murder,  but 
you  can  trust  Beresford  to  keep  out  of  the  way.  ...  I 
suppose  there'll  be  a  divorce.  ...  I  honestly  don't  know 
what  to  do  about  Raney.  He's  my  oldest  and  dearest 
friend,  but  I  don't  know  more  than  the  surface  of  him.  .  .  . 
God!  If  I  had  Sonia's  throat  in  my  two  hands!"  He 
broke  off  and  pulled  me  roughly  off  the  kerb,  gripping  my 
arm  until  we  were  half-way  down  Cockspur  Street.  "I've 
never  been  faced  with  this  kind  of  thing,  Stornaway.  I 
suppose  you  must  have  been?" 

"Nothing  so  bad  as  this,"  I  was  able  to  answer  him. 

We  walked  on  into  Pall  Mall  without  speaking.  Then 
George  gripped  my  arm  again. 

"That  poor  devil  alone  in  the  dark  with  this — this  to 
occupy  his  thoughts!" 


SONIA  O'RANE  141 

I  made  no  comment.  I  do  not  see  what  comment  was 
possible. 

"I  feel  so  hopelessly  at  sea!"  he  exclaimed  agitatedly. 
"Stornaway,  you've  had  to  pull  people  out  of  holes  before ; 
can  nothing  be  done  ?  Can't  we  get  her  to  go  back  ?  Would 
he  receive  her  back?  Of  course,  we're  all  of  us  seeing  red 
now,  but  somehow  every  hour  that  she  spends  with  Beres- 
ford  makes  it  harder  to  get  her  back;  if  we  could  use 
Raney's  love  for  her " 

"D'you  want  her  to  go  back?"  I  interrupted. 

"God  knows  what  I  want!"  he  sighed. 

We  had  reached  the  steps  of  the  County  Club,  and  I 
told  George  to  come  in  and  have  some  dinner  with  me. 
Both  of  us  were  already  engaged  in  different  parts  of 
London,  but  we  wanted  to  hold  together. 

"Come  to  Hale's,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head.  "It's  pretty 
well  deserted  since  the  war;  everybody's  fighting.  I  can't 
risk  meeting  a  crowd  of  people  I  know  and  having  to 
pretend  nothing's  up." 

Leaving  St.  James'  Square,  we  walked  through  King 
Street  and  entered  the  squat  Regency  house  which  had 
sheltered  succeeding  generations  of  London's  exquisites  for 
a  hundred  years.  The  coffee-room  was  deserted,  and  we  had 
a  choice  of  wine,  food  and  service;  but  I  have  never  eaten 
a  gloomier  meal.  Every  few  minutes  George  would  say, 
"Look  here,  you  know,  something's  got  to  be  done  about 
this !"  and  I  would  reply,  "Nothing  can  be  done."  Then  we 
would  attack  a  new  course.  Though  we  had  chosen  Hale's 
to  be  secure  from  interruption,  I  am  not  sure  that  we  were 
not  both  a  little  relieved  at  the  end  of  dinner  when  Vincent 
Grayle  limped  in  with  an  evening  paper  under  his  arm  and 
asked  leave  to  join  us  for  the  short  remainder  of  our  meal. 
I  can  get  on  with  him  at  a  pinch;  George  cannot;  but  we 
shared  a  common  need  for  diversion. 

"I've  just  this  moment  got  back  from  France,"  Grayle 
said  to  explain  his  late  arrival.  "I've  been  having  a  lively 
week  at  G.H.Q.,  watching  the  professional  soldiers  losing 
the  war  for  us."  He  summoned  a  waiter  and  truculently  or- 


142  SONIA  MARRIED  * 

dered  dinner.    "Anything  happening  in  London  ?"  he  asked. 

"Nothing  much,"  I  told  him.  "What  news  from  the 
Front?" 

"Everybody's  very  cheery,  getting  ready  for  the  big 
push.  They  all  seem  quite  sure  that  they're  going  to  break 
through  this  time,  and  there's  an  amount  of  ammunition 
and  reserves  that  really  does  put  you  in  good  heart  when  you 
think  how  the  men  out  there  were  starving  in  the  first  part 
of  the  war — thanks  to  the  gang  we  had  running  things  on 
this  side.  Whether  we've  got  the  generals  is  another  ques- 
tion ;  if  not,  we  must  make  a  remarkably  big  clean  sweep, 
politicians  included." 

He  was  evidently  preparing  one  of  his  usual  attacks,  and, 
though  I  had  welcomed  the  momentary  diversion,  neither 
George  nor  I  wanted  a  political  argument  at  such  a  time. 
With  a  trumped-up  apology  we  went  into  the  morning-room 
for  coffee  and  liqueurs,  leaving  Grayle  to  his  opinions  and 
his  evening  paper. 

"We  don't  seem  to  have  thought  out  anything  very  help- 
ful," sighed  George,  as  he  threw  himself  into  a  chair. 
"D'you  think  it's  the  least  good  going  round  to  Beresford's 
place  and  forcing  Sonia  to  go  back?" 

"Do  you  want  her  to  go  back,  even  if  you  can  make 
her?"  I  asked  once  more.  "She's  been  saying  for  weeks 
that  she  regarded  her  marriage  as  at  an  end;  now  she's 
proved  it.  Do  you  want  to  send  her  back  on  those  terms  ? 
And  does  O'Rane  want  to  have  her  back  ?" 

George  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  shaking  his  head 
despairingly  from  side  to  side. 

"I — don't — know,"  he  groaned.  "And  this  must  have 
bowled  poor  old  Raney  over  so  much  that  I  don't  suppose 
he  knows.  Ordinarily — but  it's  absurd  to  use  such  a  word. 
.  .  .  I  can  only  say  this;  he  loved  her  so  much,  he  loved 
her  for  so  many  years,  he  believed  in  her — or  in  some  won- 
derful idealised  conception  of  her  by  which  he  saw  every 
kind  of  saintly  quality  where  the  rest  of  us  only  regarded 
her  as  a  good-natured,  but  quite  heartless,  fascinating  co- 
quette— he  thought  of  her  and  dreamed  of  her,  she  was  so 


SONIA  O'RANE  143 

much  a  part  of  his  life,  the  big  part,  the  only  thing  that 
mattered. .  . ."  He  paused,  out  of  breath.  "You'd  have  said 
that  it  would  have  been  like  cutting  off  his  arms  and  legs, 
if  he'd  lost  her,  if  she'd  died  or  married  Jim  Loring  or  the 
other  fellow  she  was  engaged  to.  ...  But  I  don't  know  now. 
When  you've  given  all  that  love  and  trust,  when  you've  ideal- 
ised anyone,  and  the  whole  conception  crumbles  away  .  .  . 
Stornaway,  he's  extraordinarily  frank ;  I  fancy  I  know  more 
of  him  than  most  people.  Well,  I  do  know  how  he  loved  that 
strumpet;  I  don't  know,  I  can't  say  whether  he'd  love  her 
still  or  whether  he'd  just  want  to  strangle  her  and  then  cut 
his  own  throat.  .  .  .  But  I  think  it's  worth  trying.  We  can 
at  least  give  him  a  chance,  we  can  keep  his  hands  off 

her "  He  jumped  up,  leaving  his  coffee  untasted.  "I'm 

going  to  have  a  shot." 

"Shall  I  come  with  you  ?"  I  asked. 

He  was  already  half-way  to  the  door. 

"I  want  everyone  I  can  get!"  he  threw  back  over  his 
shoulder. 

We  drove  to  Sloane  Square,  and  in  ten  minutes'  time  I 
found  myself  once  more  mounting  the  stairs  to  Beresford's 
flat.  The  lower  floors  were  silent  and  deserted,  but,  as  we 
climbed  higher,  I  heard  voices  and  the  tramp  of  heavy  feet 
growing  louder  and  more  distinct  with  every  yard  that  we 
covered.  As  we  rounded  the  corner  of  the  passage,  I 
stopped  with  a  sickening  sense  of  foreboding,  when  I  found 
my  path  blocked -by  a  policeman.  For  a  moment  no  one 
spoke,  and  I  fancied  that  we  were  being  scrutinised  with 
disfavour,  even  with  suspicion.  George,  however,  was  too 
much  preoccupied  to  be  daunted. 

"Is  Mr.  Beresford  at  home,  d'you  know  ?"  he  asked.  The 
constable  shook  his  head.  "D'you  happen  to  know  where 
he  is  ?  I  have  to  see  him  on  a  matter  of  great  urgency.  If 
he's  not  in,  I'll  go  in  and  wait  till  he  comes  back." 

He  made  a  step  forward,  but  the  man  shewed  no  sign  of 
yielding. 

"Afraid  I  can't  let  you  by,  sir,"  he  said.  "No  one's  al- 
lowed in." 


144  SONIA  MARRIED 

I  was  assailed  by  a  dreadful  certainty  that  we  had  arrived 
too  late. 

"Why  not  ?"  I  demanded,  but  my  voice  quavered  too  much 
to  be  effective. 

"Mr.  Beresford's  been  arrested." 

"But,  in  God's  name,  what  for?" 

"That's  none  of  my  business,"  was  the  answer. 

George  was  diving  significantly  into  his  trouser-pocket, 
but  I  felt  that  what  lay  before  me  was  too  serious  for  trifling 
with  half-crowns.'  I  handed  the  man  my  card  and  repeated 
my  request. 

"It's  not  mere  curiosity,"  I  said.  "If  you  don't  tell  me, 
there  are  others  who  will ;  but  I  want  to  save  time." 

I  always  have  the  letters  "M.P."  printed  on  my  cards  to 
impress  government  departments,  for  throughout  the  public 
service  there  is  an  inherited  dread  that  a  question  may  be 
asked  in  the  House ;  the  hierarchy  from  top  to  bottom  makes 
it  the  first  business  of  life  to  avoid  such  publicity.  This  in- 
stinct of  self-preservation,  deeply-rooted  as  a  horse's  fear  of 
a  snake  in  the  grass,  led  the  constable  to  inform  me  promptly 
that  Beresford  had  been  arrested  for  issuing  seditious  litera- 
ture ;  his  flat  was  at  the  moment  being  searched. 

My  own  sigh  of  relief  was  drowned  by  a  deeper  sigh  from 
George. 

"When  did  this  take  place?"  he  asked. 

"To-day,  sir.  I  can't  tell  you  the  time;  I've  only  just 
come  on  duty." 

"Was  there  anyone  there  besides  Mr.  Beresford  ?  Is  there 
anyone  there  now?" 

"The  inspector,  sir ;  and  two  men." 

George  thanked  him  and  led  me  by  the  arm  to  the  head 
of  the  stairs. 

"Thank  God !"  he  whispered.  "You — you  thought  so,  too ; 
I  could  see  it  in  your  face.  Oh,  Christ,  if  they  were  going 
to  arrest  the  fellow,  why  couldn't  they  have  done  it  sooner  ? 
7  don't  know  what  to  do  now.  At  least — I  must  go  back  to 
The  Sanctuary'  and  see  what's  happened  there."  He 
dragged  me  down  stairs  and  into  our  taxi  at  a  pace  which 


SONIA  O'RANE  145 

more  than  once  threatened  to  break  both  our  necks.  "Where 
the  devil  can  she  have  gone  to,  Stornaway  ?  She'd  naturally 
come  here.  But,  when  they  arrested  him  .  .  ." 

The  shrouded  lamp  over  "The  Sanctuary"  door  was  un- 
lighted  when  we  arrived;  the  door  was  locked  against  us, 
and,  though  I  now  remembered  hearing  the  key  turn  when 
O'Rane  shewed  us  out,  the  cherished  little  piece  of  his  be- 
loved childish  symbolism  was  grown  painfully  familiar. 

"Come  round  to  the  other  door,"  said  George,  and  we  were 
admitted  and  ushered  into  Bertrand's  room.  "Any  news  ?" 
he  enquired  gently. 

Someone  had  drawn  the  blinds,  someone  had  brought  in 
a  tray  of  food;  otherwise  the  room  was  unchanged  in  as- 
pect, and  Bertrand  seemed  not  to  have  moved  since  I  left 
him  stretched  in  the  long  wicker  chair  three  hours  earlier. 

"News?"  he  repeated,  opening  his  eyes  and  blinking  at 
us.  "David's  gone  back  to  Melton.  Ah !  this  is  a  bad  busi- 
ness !  Give  me  a  hand  up,  George ;  I'm  tired.  I  sometimes 
think  I've  lived  too  long." 


CHAPTER  FOUR 

THE  DOOR  CLOSED 


'Proprium  humani  ingenii  est,  odisse  quern  laeseris." 

T*  A /"'TT'TTC    "  A/*1*f*ff\ln       f* 


TACITUS:     Agricola  C.  42. 


As  I  write,  the  war  has  been  in  progress  for  two  and  a 
half  years,  and  it  is  beyond  the  wit  of  man  to  foretell  how 
much  longer  it  will  continue,  though  there  is  the  annual  feel- 
ing that  peace  will  come  before  the  autumn.  In  August  we 
shall  reach  the  end  of  the  three  years  which  Lord  Kitchener 
had  in  mind  when  he  began  his  preparations,  but  I  for  one 
look  forward  to  the  summer  of  1917  with  greater  appre- 
hension than  ever  I  felt  a  year  ago.  During  1916  I  was  the 
unconscious  psychological  victim  of  men  like  Grayle  who 
were  so  convinced  of  our  predestined  failure  under  the  ex- 
isting regime  that  they  went  some  way  towards  convincing 
me.  In  June  the  field  of  war  was  extended  by  the  Bulgarian 
inroads  into  Greece,  and,  though  we  talked  still  of  the  "Rus- 
sian steam-roller,"  it  was  not  until  July  that  the  Austrian 
counter-drive  in  Russia  and  Italy  was  checked.  The  New 
Army,  which  had  been  so  grandly  raised,  went  into  action 
at  the  Somme  and  covered  itself  with  immortal  renown ;  we 
did  not  quickly  see  how  much  had  been  spent  and  how  little 
achieved — "Six  hundred  thousand  casualties  and  an  un- 
broken German  front,"  as  Grayle  declared  to  me  in  the 
Smoking-Room  at  the  House  one  night. 

Grayle's  political  sense  was  good  in  that  from  the  break- 
down of  the  Somme  offensive  he  saw  that  the  days  of  the 
Government  were  numbered.  Ministers  never  recovered  the 
prestige  which  they  had  lost  in  the  Irish  rising.  The  dis- 

146 


THE  DOOR  CLOSED  147 

astrous  expedition  to  the  Dardanelles  was  being  discussed 
so  widely  and  bitterly  that  an  enquiry  had  to  be  in- 
stituted ;  so  with  the  no  less  disastrous  expedition  to  Meso- 
potamia ;  and,  as  more  men  were  frittered  away  in  Salonica, 
we  began  to  wonder  whether  we  should  not  have  to  hold 
a  third  enquiry,  indeed  an  enquiry  into  every  subsidiary  en- 
terprise which  every  amateur  strategist  in  the  Cabinet  under- 
took in  any  theatre  of  war. 

There  were  many  who  began  at  this  time  to  swell  Grayle's 
clamour  for  a  change, — a  series  of  changes,  indeed,  simul- 
taneously in  the  Ministry  which  was  weak  enough  to  em- 
bark on  this  succession  of  costly  failures  and  in  the  soldiers 
who  failed  to  achieve  success  with  such  conditions  of  men, 
material  and  ammunition  as  the  Germans  had  never  equalled 
in  the  days  when  the  balance  tipped  highest  in  their  favour. 
I  had,  myself,  always  simulated  rather  a  superior  aloofness, 
for  I  felt  that,  as  the  war  was  a  bigger  and  longer  enterprise 
than  my  fellows  would  admit,  so  we  must  be  prepared  for 
greater  failures  in  coping  with  it.  Yet  I  can  see  now  that 
I  began  to  listen  less  impatiently  to  the  critics.  The  War 
Office  at  this  time  was  in  the  charge  of  a  distinguished  sol- 
dier who  had  had  the  vision  and  courage  to  prophesy  a  long 
war  and  whose  personality  and  reputation  were  of  inestim- 
able value  in  creating  the  armies  which  came  to  bear  his 
name.  Largely  on  newspaper  prompting,  the  Government 
had  made  Lord  Kitchener  Secretary  of  State  for  War,  and 
the  country  as  a  whole  was  reassured  by  the  presence  of  an 
expert  military  brain  in  the  deplorably  civilian  councils  of 
the  cabinet.  There  was  a  simple-minded  faith,  which  ex- 
pressed itself  in  Maurice  Maitland's  phrase,  "Leave  it  to 
K." ;  a  volume  of  work  which  no  single  man  could  accom- 
plish was  thereupon  trustingly  concentrated  in  the  hands  of 
one  who  loved  to  hold  as  many  strings  as  possible.  Stagna- 
tion in  the  War  Office  gave  way  to  chaos,  until  one  func- 
tion after  another — recruiting,  equipment  and  munitions — 
were  withdrawn  from  his  grasp  and  confided  to  others. 
Later  the  Staff  control  was  separated  from  the  political  con- 
trol, and  Lord  Kitchener  gave  no  orders  that  were  not  coun- 


148  SONIA  MARRIED 

tersigned  by  his  Chief  of  Staff;  later  still  an  effort  was 
made  in  the  cabinet  to  deprive  him  of  an  office  which  he  had 
ceased  usefully  to  fill.  He  was  sent  to  inspect  the  Eastern 
theatre  of  war ;  he  was  sent  also  to  Russia.  .  .  . 

I  am  unlikely  to  forget  a  day  when  I  was  lunching  with 
Bertrand  at  the  Eclectic  Club.  Maitland  sat  down  with  a 
blank  face  and  said,  "I've  got  some  bad  news  for  you  men. 
K's  been  drowned.  He  was  going  out  to  Russia,  and  his 
ship — the  'Hampshire' — was  sunk  by  a  mine  or  torpedo — 
they  don't  know  which,  and  the  North  Sea  must  be  full  of 
loose  mines  after  this  Jutland  action.  The  sea  was  so  rough 
that  the  escort  had  to  turn  back  almost  at  once.  .  .  ."  Some 
time  passed  before  we  could  discuss  Maitland's  news,  for 
Lord  Kitchener  had  been  so  imposing  an  idol,  so  aloof  and 
mysterious — until  you  met  him  at  close  quarters,  as  I  had 
done  a  few  days  before,  when  a  deputation  of  us  waited 
on  him  and  sought  enlightenment  on  subjects  which  we  could 
not  discuss  openly  in  the  House — so  well-established  and  un- 
shakable ;  we  never  expected  him  to  die  in  the  middle  of  the 
war,  certainly  we  never  dreamed  of  a  death  so  fortuitous, 
unnecessary,  so  much  the  freak  of  Providence. 

"Yet  I'm  not  sure  it's  not  the  best  thing  for  his  reputa- 
tion," Maitland  said.  "Felix  opportunitate  mortis,  you 
know.  There's  a  whole  crop  of  failures  to  explain,  and  his 
prestige  must  have  suffered.  Don't  you  sometimes  feel  that 
we  want  a  clean  sweep,  Stornaway?  . . .  I'm  a  soldier  myself, 
but  it  was  a  great  mistake,  whatever  people  may  think,  put- 
ting a  soldier  at  the  War  Office.  .  .  ." 

The  news  was  being  cried  in  the  streets,  as  I  went  back 
to  my  department ;  half-way  through  the  afternoon  a  messen- 
ger came  into  my  room  to  say  that  all  blinds  in  all  govern- 
ment offices  were  to  be  drawn ;  that  night,  Yolande  told  me, 
was  the  worst  she  had  known  since  the  tidings  reached  her 
nearly  two  years  before  that  her  brother  had  been  killed 
in  the  retreat  from  Mons.  Wave  after  wave  of  men  poured 
from  the  leave-trains  and  surged  into  her  canteen,  demand- 
ing confirmation  of  this  story  which  was  being  whispered 
at  the  coast.  And,  when  she  told  them  or  pointed  to  the  of- 


THE  DOOR  CLOSED  149 

ficial  report,  they  still. would  not  believe  it.  He  was  the 
man  under  whom  they  had  enlisted.  .  .  . 

Yet,  when  a  civilian  was  once  more  at  the  head  of  the 
War  Office,  I  believe  that  a  new  embarrassment  was  substi- 
tuted for  the  old.  As  the  Somme  campaign  had  failed  to 
achieve  a  decision,  men  like  Grayle  openly  resumed  the  criti- 
cism which  they  had  suspended  for  a  few  months  and  de- 
manded the  removal  of  the  responsible  Commander  in  Chief 
and  the  Chief  of  the  General  Staff.  Thereupon  two  schools 
arose  in  the  Press,  the  House  and,  I  believe,  the  Cabinet; 
the  civilian  backers  of  Sir  William  Robertson  and  Sir  Doug- 
las Haig  pitted  themselves  against  their  civilian  detractors ; 
individual  commanders  were  surrounded  by  social  cliques 
and  supported  by  individual  Ministers  and  papers.  I  was  told 
by  Grayle  and  by  the  section  of  the  press  influenced  by  him 
that  we  wanted  a  reconstruction  of  the  Ministry  and  of  the 
Higher  Command;  I  was  told  by  the  Press  Combine  that 
Sir  Douglas  Haig  was  the  one  general  of  outstanding  genius 
whom  the  war  had  brought  to  the  surface. 

Between  the  two  I  confess  that  I  lost  my  temper.  Even 
with  South  Africa  and  the  Antwerp  expedition  to  his  credit, 
Grayle  was  no  more  fit  to  appoint  or  depose  a  Chief  of  Staff 
than  I  was  to  cast  a  play  or  select  a  prima  donna.  But  I 
found  it  difficult  to  say  who  was  better  placed  than  either 
of  us.  Grayle  certainly  was  a  pragmatist. 

"Results!  results!"  he  would  declaim  at  me.  "I  want 
the  contract  put  out  to  tender.  Can  you  or  can  you  not 
break  the  line?  What  men  and  guns  do  you  want?  Here 
they  are;  you  may  have  three  months,  and,  if  you  fail,  no 
dignified  home  commands,  but  the  completest  breaking  a 
man's  ever  had.  That's  the  way  Napoleon  would  have  done 
it ;  that's  the  way  the  Germans,  would  do  it." 

Grayle  was  very  active  in  the  summer  of  1916.  I  could 
see  him  drawing  together  and  co-ordinating  the  scattered 
groups  of  disaffected  critics,  and  my  mind  went  back  to 
George  Oakleigh's  account  of  the  "Stunt  Artists."  There 
was  the  Liberal  Ginger  Group,  the  Conservative  Ginger 
Group,  the  Mesopotamia  Group,  the  Dardanelles  Group,  all 


150  SONIA  MARRIED 

firing  occasional  volleys  into  the  arms  and  legs  of  the  Min- 
istry, none  daring  to  fire  at  the  head  or  heart.  The  appar- 
ently strongest  man  in  the  House  at  this  time  was  Sir 
Edward  Carson.  Not  content  with  criticism,  he  could  force 
the  Government  to  bring  in  a  bill,  modify  a  bill  or  drop  a 
bill.  Glad  indeed  would  Grayle  have  been  to  consolidate 
opposition  under  such  leadership,  but  at  this  season  unity 
was  regarded  as  the  first  requisite ;  no  one  was  yet  prepared 
to  split  the  Government  or  the  country  into  rival  factions. 

If  not  active,  I  was  at  least  very  assiduous  in  my  attend- 
ance during  those  summer  months.  I  was  assiduous,  too, 
at  my  office  and  in  my  department.  The  last  act  of  the 
O'Rane  tragedy  at  which  George  and  I  had  assisted  hit  me 
as  hard  as  the  death  of  a  very  dear  friend.  I  had  thought 
that  I  had  outgrown  other  people's  troubles ;  I  found  that  I 
was  younger  than  I  thought.  When  I  met  Bertrand  or 
George,  I  shunned  discussion  of  the  subject;  when  I  went 
to  Melton,  I  will  say  frankly  that  I  avoided  a  meeting  with 
O'Rane.  During  May  I  fancy  that  the  others  joined  me  in 
my  conspiracy  of  silence,  and  we  were  aided  by  events.  I 
read  one  day  that  a  certain  Peter  Beresford,  described  as  an 
author,  had  been  prosecuted  for  issuing  a  pamphlet  entitled 
"Lettres  de  Cachet,"  which  was  calculated  to  undermine  the 
loyalty,  discipline,  and  moral  of  the  army;  the  pamphlet 
was  confiscated,  and  its  author  sentenced  to  a  term  of  three 
months'  imprisonment.  Whether  he  repeated  his  hunger- 
strike  or  not,  I  had  no  means  of  knowing,  as  he  passed  out 
of  my  life  on  his  arrest  and  only  re-entered  it  many  weeks 
later. 

Mrs.  O'Rane  had  disappeared  as  completely  and  far  more 
mysteriously.  In  the  early  months  of  the  year,  quite  apart 
from  deliberate  meetings  at  her  house  or  Grayle's  or  Lady 
Maitland's,  I  had  caught  sight  of  her  at  least  once  a  week 
lunching  or  dining  in  a  restaurant  or  chattering  to  one  or 
other  of  her  many  admirers  at  a  play.  After  the  catastrophe,1 
though  I  probably  dined  and  lunched  in  as  many  of  her 
favourite  restaurants  as  before,  I  never  met  her.  There  was 
a  vague  assumption  that  she  was  in  the  country.  One  night, 


THE  DOOR  CLOSED  151 

as  I  was  smoking  a  cigarette  in  the  entr'acte  at  some  theatre, 
Gerald  Deganway  came  up,  screwed  his  eye-glass  in  place, 
squeaked  a  welcome  and  asked  whether  I  had  seen  Sonia 
lately.  I  told  him  that  I  had  not.  He  rather  understood 
that  she  was  staying  with  her  people  at  Crowley  Court.  .  .  . 
After  consultation  with  O'Rane,  George  transferred  himself 
to  Westminster  to  look  after  his  uncle  and  to  keep  the  house- 
hold in  commission.  I  believe  that  he  forwarded  letters  to 
Melton  and  I  have  an  idea  that  there  was  a  second  vague 
assumption  that  she  was  with  her  husband  at  the  school. 
The  ties  and  relationships  in  social  life  were  so  much  dis- 
organised by  the  war  that  no  one  was  ever  surprised  by 
an  unexpected  meeting  or  a  failure  to  meet ;  everyone  was 
too  much  occupied  with  his  own  business  to  care. 

I  had  convincing  evidence  of  this  one  day  when  I  received 
a  call  from  Lady  Dainton.  She  wished  to  equip  Crowley 
Court  as  a  hospital  for  shell-shock  cases — anyone  could  deal 
with  ordinary  wounds  and  operations;  there  was  no  ade- 
quate scheme  for  treating  these  nervous  derangements,  and 
she  felt  that  her  house  was  unusually  well  adapted  for  the 
purpose.  After  we  had  thrashed  out  her  proposal,  I  under- 
took to  recommend  my  Emergency  Fund  Committee  to  make 
a  grant.  There  our  business  ended,  and,  as  I  walked  with 
her  to  the  door,  she  looked  at  her  watch. 

"It's  no  good,"  I  remember  her  saying.  "I  hoped  to  leave 
time  for  a  call  on  Sonia,  but  I  shall  only  miss  my  train,  if  I 
try.  It's  really  dreadful  how  driven  we  all  are.  I  never 
have  a  moment  for  anything,  don't  you  know?  This  is  the 
first  time  I've  been  in  London  for  months,  I've  seen  nothing 
of  Sonia  for  I  don't  know  how  long — Ah,  surely,  that  taxi's 
disengaged?  I  mustn't  miss  it.  This  petrol  shortage  is 
really  the  last  straw.  As  if  we  hadn't  enough  discomfort 
before,  don't  you  know  ?" 

I  returned  to  my  desk  with  a  pusillanimous  sense  of  re- 
lief. The  Daintons,  then,  neither  knew  nor  suspected  what 
had  become  of  their  daughter.  The  secret  was  in  the  keep- 
ing of  the  O'Ranes,  the  two  Oakleighs,  Beresford  and  my- 
self. Somehow  the  disaster  seemed  hardly  so  complete  while 


152  SONIA  MARRIED 

there  was  no  public  scandal,  and  neither  the  Oakleighs  nor 
I  were  likely  to  add  that  last  touch.  For  the  others  I  could 
not  speak ;  Mrs.  O'Rane  or  Beresford  or  both  might  welcome 
a  petition  for  divorce;  no  one  knew  what  was  passing  in 
O'Rane's  mind. 

Before  term  was  a  month  old,  George  went  to  Melton  on 
a  roving  commission. 

"I  would  as  soon  spend  a  week-end  with  a  well-bred  block 
of  ice,"  he  confided  to  me  on  his  return.  "He  was  courteous, 
hospitable — nothing  too  much  trouble  to  make  me  com- 
fortable. We  talked  by  the  hour  of  fellows  who'd  been  at 
school  with  us,  things  we'd  done — you  know,  endless  ridicu- 
lous anecdotes  of  how  somebody's  leg  had  been  pulled,  how 
we'd  got  into  some  appalling  row  together.  As  a  rule  I 
find  school  'shop'  rather  fun,  but  Raney  might  have  been 
reciting  the  kings  of  England  with  their  dates.  He  was 
utterly  lifeless  and  mechanical ;  never  a  smile.  .  .  .  When  we 
went  into  Common  Room  for  dinner,  he  played  up  and  was 
a  different  man ;  they  chaffed  him,  and  he  chaffed  them,  and 
we  dug  out  more  school  'shop,'  and  he  threw  himself  into 
it  heart  and  soul.  It  was  the  same  on  Sunday,  when  a 
pack  of  his  boys  came  and  talked  to  him  after  evening 
chapel;  he  didn't  let  them  see  there  was  anything  up.  It 
had  been  the  same  when  the  enigmatic  Miss  Merryon  came 
in  the  morning;  the  usual  smile.  ...  Of  course,  he  never 
came  within  a  thousand  miles  of  mentioning  it.  ...  When 
I  left  on  Monday,  I  told  him  that  I  wanted  to  invite  myself 
again  before  the  end  of  the  term,  and  then  we  did  get  to 
grips  a  bit.  He  shook  hands  and  said,  'Look  here,  old  man, 
it  spoils  your  week-end  and — I  don't  want  to  be  ungracious 
— it  doesn't  do  me  any  good.  I've  got  to  go  through  this 
alone/  " 

From  George's  sigh  I  felt  that  in  this  he  was  at  one  with 
O'Rane. 

But,  if  not  more  than  six  people  knew  what  had  hap- 
pened, there  were  many  who  would  be  more  curious  to  find 
out  than  Lady  Dainton  had  shewn  herself  to  be.  It  was 
easy  enough  for  Bertrand  or  George  or  one  of  the  servants 


THE  DOOR  CLOSED  153 

to  say  that  Mrs.  O'Rane  was  away  from  London  and  then 
to  hang  up  the  receiver  of  the  telephone,  but  it  was  a  differ- 
ent matter  as  the  weeks  went  by  and  as  the  more  pertina- 
cious enquirers  called  in  person.  I  could  sympathise  with 
George.  The  only  person  likely  to  interrogate  me  was 
Grayle,  and  from  the  fact  that  he  never  mentioned  Mrs. 
O'Rane's  name  I  judged  that  they  had  quarrelled  finally 
and  finally  parted  on  the  night  when  I  was  privileged  to 
meet  them  at  the  Berkeley.  I  had  enough  psychological 
curiosity  to  wonder  what  had  happened  when  she  hurried 
out  into  Piccadilly  after  him.  Grayle  had  assuredly  scored 
a  game  when  he  asserted  himself  and  made  her  run  after 
him ;  but  the  game  had  been  won  when  he  was  too  tired  to 
be  desirous  of  winning  it. 

My  first  tidings  came  to  me  at  the  end  of  May  from  my 
niece.  She  and  her  husband  were  dining  with  me  one  night 
at  my  hotel,  and  she  asked  me  whether  I  had  been  at  "The 
Sanctuary"  lately. 

"I've  been  very  busy,"  I  told  her.  "And  I  believe  Mrs. 
O'Rane's  away." 

"She's  not  away,"  Yolande  answered :  "I  saw  her  at  Har- 
rods'  yesterday.  That's  what  made  me  think  of  it." 

Yolande,  then,  knew  nothing  of  what  had  happened. 

"I  wonder  when  she  got  back,"  I  said  as  unconcernedly 
as  I  could.  "Did  she  tell  you  ?" 

"We  didn't  speak."  Yolande's  expression  became  hostile. 
"I  suppose  I  dislike  her  every  bit  as  much  as  she  dislikes 
me,  but  so  far  we've  kept  up  appearances.  I  bowed  to  her 
yesterday,  and  she  couldn't  help  seeing  me,  but  for  some  rea- 
son best  known  to  herself  she  thought  fit  to  cut  me." 

"She  couldn't  have  seen  you,"  I  said. 

"She  couldn't  help  seeing  me,"  Yolande  repeated. 


Three  days  later  I  myself  met  Mrs.  O'Rane  in  Hyde 
Park.  Remembering  Yolande's  experience,  I  determined 
that  she  should  not  cut  me  and,  as  we  had  no  opportunity 


154  SONIA  MARRIED 

of  pretending  not  to  have  seen  each  other,  I  blocked  her 
path,  bowed  and  held  out  my  hand  to  her. 

"I've  not  seen  you  for  weeks,"  she  said  with  a  composed 
smile.  "You've  not  been  to  America  again,  have  you  ?" 

"I've  been  kept  very  busy  at  the  House  and  in  my  de- 
partment," I  answered.  "Have  you  been  away  ?" 

"For  week-ends  and  things."  She  glanced  collectedly 
round  to  assure  herself  that  she  was  not  being  overheard. 
"Why  did  you  button-hole  me  like  this,  Mr.  Stornaway  ?" 

I  suppose  my  real  reason  was  that,  if  there  had  to  be  any 
cutting,  it  should  not  be  by  her;  and  I  had  not  made  up 
my  mind  how  to  act  when  we  found  ourselves  suddenly  con- 
fronting each  other  at  the  park  gate. 

"When  a  man  meets  a  woman  he  knows "  I  began. 

Mrs.  O'Rane  laughed  with  soft,  repellent  scorn. 

"As  if  you  didn't  know  everything." 

"That  is,  I  believe,  an  attribute  of  the  Almighty,"  I  re- 
plied. 

For  a  few  moments  she  was  absorbed  in  the  task  of  dig- 
ging with  the  end  of  her  parasol  round  the  edge  of  a  promi- 
nent black  pebble.  As  the  dry  earth  crumbled,  the  pebble 
worked  loose,  and  she  was  free  to  hit  it  away  and  look  up 
at  me  again. 

"You  know  enough." 

"For  what?"  I  asked. 

She  sighed  and  waved  her  hand  across  the  dusty,  unshaded 
walk. 

"For  passing  by  on  the  other  side." 

"Habit  is  sometimes  very  strong,"  I  said. 

We  stood  looking  at  one  another  reflectively  for  a  few 
minutes,  each  perhaps  wondering  why  the  other  did  not 
make  an  excuse  to  break  away.  I  found  her  so  self- 
possessed  that  it  was  difficult  to  believe  what  I  knew  to  be 
the  truth.  I  have  met  unfaithful  wives  before,  I  have  seen 
men  and  women  living  in  many  kinds  of  social  outlawry, 
but  with  none  of  them  did  it  seem  to  make  so  little  differ- 
ence as  with  Mrs.  O'Rane.  She  was  not  defiant,  she  was 
hardly  even  callous;  and  her  manner  was  so  natural  that 


THE  DOOR  CLOSED  155 

I  felt  the  last  six  months  might  well  have  been  blotted  out 
of  her  life.  Once  she  lowered  her  eyes  to  look  at  the  little 
platinum  watch;  then  raised  them  again  with  a  friendly 
smile.  She  was  dressed  with  unostentatious  distinction  in 
a  blue  coat  and  skirt,  with  a  high  collar  to  the  coat  and  a 
tight-fitting  amber-coloured  waistcoat  with  round,  page-boy's 
buttons;  there  was  a  high-crowned  hat  to  match  the  coat, 
white  gloves,  grey  stockings  and  black  shoes  with  a  pearl- 
coloured  border.  Though  her  eyes  were  tired  and  her  cheeks 
a  little  pale,  she  looked  wonderfully  young  and  carefree. 

"You  thought  I  wouldn't  do  it,"  she  said  at  length,  more 
to  convict  me  of  bad  judgement,  I  think,  than  to  defend  her 
own  conduct.  "Men  are  so  curious.  .  .  .  You  all  had  the 
clearest  warning,  only  you  wouldn't  take  it.  You  wouldn't 
see  that  it  was  the  only  thing  left  for  me  to  do." 

"And  you  are  still  of  that  mind  ?  You  feel  it  was  the  right 
thing?" 

"It  depends  what  you  mean  by  right,"  she  answered 
slowly.  "Most  people  would  say  it  was  wrong,  but  then 
most  people  are  fools.  And  none  of  them  could  possibly 
know  what  I  had  to  go  through,"  she  added  through  her 
teeth. 

"They'll  never  know  that,"  I  said,  "because  you'll  never 
be  able  to  tell  them.  As  long  as  you're  happy " 

"I'm  very  happy,"  she  interrupted. 

"And  you  think  you'll  continue  to  be?" 

"No  one  can  answer  that.  .  .  .  I'm  happier  than  I  was. 
You,  of  course,  think  that  I've  behaved  criminally.  I  only 
feel  that  we  made  a  mistake.  I  thought  David  loved  me, 
and  he — didn't.  I  believe  he  thought  he  loved  me.  ...  I 
made  every  possible  allowance  for  him,  I  did  everything  a 
woman  could  do  to  make  a  success  of  our  life,  but  you  must 
have  seen  enough  to  know  that  he  never  gave  our  marriage 
a  chance.  I  was  ready  to  put  up  with  everything  until  he 
humiliated  me  in  my  own  house.  Then  it  was  time  to  admit 
we'd  made  a  mistake  and  to  get  out  of  it  as  soon  as  possible." 
Her  parasol  was  again  at  work  on  the  hard-baked  gravel. 
"If  he'd  hated  me,  if  he'd  enjoyed  hurting  me,  he  couldn't 


156  SONIA  MARRIED 

have  done  better.  I  never  knew  what  men  were  capable 
of  before." 

In  my  turn  I  looked  at  my  watch  and  held  out  my  hand. 

"I  have  not  criticised  you,  Mrs.  O'Rane,"  I  said,  "so  I 
prefer  not  to  assist  in  any  criticism  of  your  husband." 

Her  lips  curled  into  a  sneer. 

"You  haven't  criticised  me  in  words"  she  qualified. 

"I  am  trying  to  suspend  judgement  till  I  know  the  facts. 
You  will  admit  that  it  requires  prima  facie  justification  when 
a  young  wife  leaves  a  husband  who  worships  her — I  will 
cut  out  the  offending  phrase,  if  you  like — leaves  her  Hind 
husband " 

I  have  only  once  seen  Mrs.  O'Rane's  beauty  of  face  wholly 
desert  her.  At  the  word  "blind"  her  cheeks  flushed,  her 
eyes  grew  hot  and  the  line  of  her  mouth  became  broken 
and  unsightly.  Months  before,  Bertrand  had  told  me  that 
her  husband's  blindness  was  the  one  thing  restraining  her, 
and,  though  she  had  lashed  herself  into  disregarding  it,  she 
evidently  could  not  forget  it.  I  could  see  that  a  passionate 
retort  was  maturing,  but  she  pressed  it  back  and  took  my 
hand. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said.  "Remember,  I  didn't  ask  you  to 
speak  to  me.  This  is  a  matter  between  David  and  myself. 
You  needn't  think  it  was  an  easy  thing  to  do,  but  I  faced 
it,  I've  gone  through  the  worst " 

"Not  more  than  six  people  in  the  world  know  that  you're 
not  living  with  your  husband,"  I  put  in. 

She  hesitated,  and  I  could  see  her  lips  compressing. 

"I'm  ready  for  that,  too,"  she  assured  me,  valiantly 
enough. 

"Where  are  you  living?"  I  asked. 

"You  must  excuse  me  if  I  don't  answer  that.  Good- 
bye." 

As  I  walked  on  towards  my  office  I  wondered  what  use 
I  ought  to  make  of  my  chance  meeting.  Yet  how  would 
O'Rane  or  George  be  benefited  by  knowing  that  she  was 
living — was  probably  living  in  London?  And  this  was  all 
that  I  could  tell  them  save  that,  however  great  her  provoca- 


THE  DOOR  CLOSED  157 

tion,  however  unheeding  the  passion  which  had  possessed 
her  and  allowed  her  to  receive  a  lover  in  her  husband's  house 
to  punish  her  husband,  she  was  not  yet  insensible  to  every 
twinge  of  conscience:  I  had  succeeded  in  once  flicking 
her  on  the  raw. 

Then  I  blamed  myself  for  wasted  opportunities ;  if  I  had 
been  less  conventionally  suave,  less  afraid  of  a  noisy  scene, 
I  might  have  put  many  more  questions  even  if  I  received 
as  few  answers.  Her  life  with  O'Rane  was  over,  but  what 
was  she  going  to  put  in  its  place  ?  He  could  divorce  her,  of 
course,  and  she  could  marry  Beresford — when  he  came  out 
of  prison.  I  never  felt,  however,  in  the  days  before  the 
catastrophe  that  she  loved  Beresford; — to  be  adored  and 
admired  by  him  was  one  thing,  but  I  never  regarded  him  as 
more  than  a  diversion,  when  no  one  else  was  by  to  flatter 
her.  Even  had  the  passion  been  there,  I  could  not  imagine 
her  marrying  such  a  man.  The  blue  coat  and  skirt,  the 
high-crowned  hat  and  patent-leather  shoes  did  not  accord 
with  a  rusty  sombrero,  Harris  tweeds  and  a  loose,  orange- 
coloured  tie ;  I  recalled  the  bizarre,  bachelor  rooms  of  Sloane 
Square  and,  in  exaggerated  contrast,  Mrs.  O'Rane's  ermine 
coat,  as  I  had  seen  it  when  I  surprised  them  there.  In  any 
day  I  dare  swear  that  she  could  not  tell  whether  she  had 
spent  five  pounds  or  five  hundred ;  but,  if  she  did  not  know 
how  much  she  squandered  in  a  year,  at  least  she  could  be 
sure  that  it  was  far  more  than  she  would  ever  get  from 
Beresford.  And,  if  she  did  not  propose  to  marry  him,  where 
and  how  would  she  live  ?  Would  she  try  to  drag  out  a  few 
more  months  or  years  as  his  mistress  with  the  four  or  five 
hundred  pounds  a  year  which  her  father  allowed  her? 
Where  and  how  was  she  living  now  ? 

To  a  long  list  of  idle  questions  I  added  one  more  and 
asked  myself  how  I  was  to  behave,  if  I  met  her  again.  It 
was  not  easy  to  avoid  her  at  the  second  encounter  when  I 
had  forced  myself  upon  her  at  the  first ;  it  was  certainly  no 
easier  to  continue  as  O'Rane's  friend  and  to  meet  his  wife 
as  though  nothing  had  happened. 

An  unsolved  problem  spoils  my  temper,  and  I  was  with 


158  SONIA  MARRIED 

difficulty  even  civil  when  a  messenger  came  into  my  room 
to  say  that  Lady  Maitland  wished  to  see  me.  She  was  shewn 
in  and  preceded  straight  to  the  point.  Was  it  true  that  under 
this  ridiculous  Military  Service  Act  all  men  under  forty  were 
to  be  dragooned  into  the  army  ?  I  must  remember  how  kind 
I  had  been  in  finding  a  position  for  her  son  in  my  office. 
Well,  he  had  come  home  the  previous  evening  and  told  her 
of  a  report  that  all  young  men  were  going  to  be  taken.  It 
made  no  difference  that  he  had  only  been  allowed  to  attest 
on  condition  that  he  could  not  be  called  up  without  leave 
of  his  chief.  That  was  all  a  scrap  of  paper,  apparently. 
Every  case  had  to  be  submitted  to  the  War  Office,  every  man 
given  a  certificate  of  exemption  or  packed  off  with  the  rough- 
est clerks  and  factory  hands  into  the  ranks.  What  was  she 
to  do  ?  It  was  intolerable. 

It  argues,  if  not  self-control,  at  least  great  gratitude  for 
past  hospitality  that  I  did  not  remind  Lady  Maitland  of  the 
first  dinner  I  ate  on  English  soil  after  my  release  from  Aus- 
tria, when  she  deafened  me  with  her  denunciations  of  the 
young  shirkers  who  stayed  at  home  and  allowed  others  to 
die  for  them.  I  was  finding  no  fault  with  her  boy,  who 
might  be  all  that  she  said ;  I  had  seen  him  twice  and  pushed 
him  hastily  into  a  fool-proof  room  where  he  read  the 
"Times"  and  acted  as  precis-writer  for  one  of  my  col- 
leagues ;  if  he  were  unfit  for  the  army,  there  was  a  chance 
that  he  might  be  rejected,  though  embittering  experience 
taught  me  that  it  was  only  a  chance.  If  he  were  passed  as 
fit,  the  first  girl  in  the  street  could  take  his  place  after  a  day's 
instruction,  and  the  office  would  be  rid  of  a  young  man  who 
was  doing  no  good  to  himself  or  anyone  else  with  the  num- 
ber of  whiskies  and  soda  which  he  found  time  to  consume 
on  his  way  to  the  office  or  with  the  cigarettes  which  he 
smoked  all  day  when  he  had  made  his  reluctant  way  thither. 

"Has  he  been  medically  examined?"  I  asked  Lady  Mait- 
land. 

"It  would  be  a  waste  of  time,"  she  answered.  "I  tell  you, 
that  boy  is  a  mass  of  nerves." 


THE  DOOR  CLOSED  159 

"Well,  send  him  him  before  a  medical  board  with  a  letter 
from  your  own  doctor,"  I  suggested. 

To  judge  from  her  expression,  my  proposal  was  unex- 
pected and  inadequate. 

"Isn't  the  best  thing  for  you  to  send  a  letter  to  the  War 
Office?"  she  asked.  "Bertie  tells  me  that  his  work  is  very 
technical." 

I  was  grown  tired  of  that  word  through  many  a  "con- 
scription scare"  and  I  resented  its  presence  on  the  lips  of 
Lady  Maitland,  who  had  been  too  free  with  her  taunts  ten 
months  before,  too  disparaging  of  the  volunteer  army  and 
too  easily  insistent  on  the  conscription  from  which  she  was 
now  trying  to  extricate  her  boy. 

"He  had  to  learn  it,"  I  reminded  her.  "And,  if  he  died 
to-morrow,  somebody 'd  have  to  learn  it  in  his  place.  If  you 
want  to  move  the  War  Office,  surely  your  husband's  the 
man  to  do  it." 

"I  don't  like  to  bother  him,"  she  answered. 

As  she  walked  to  the  door,  I  felt  that  I  had  lost  a  friend. 
It  says  much  for  her  magnanimity  that  I  was  invited  to  the 
house  within  a  week  to  be  told  that  the  War  Office — without 
encouragement  from  Sir  Maurice — had  behaved  most  sensi- 
bly, reviewing  the  junior  members  of  my  department  en  bloc 
and  granting  them  all  certificates  of  exemption  on  the 
grounds  of  indispensability. 

"We  seem  drifting  back  to  the  old  life  very  much,"  said 
George,  pensively  watching  the  bubbles  break  on  the  cham- 
pagne, when  I  told  him,  with  some  distaste,  of  my  inter- 
view. "Here  we  are  eating  and  drinking  as  usual,  I'm 
always  being  invited  to  dances.  . . .  We're  getting  used  to  this 
infernal  war,  you  know,  Stornaway,  and  we  shall  lose  it,  if 
we  can't  put  up  as  relatively  good  a  show  as  the  fellows  who 
are  being  killed.  I  suppose  we're  too  far  away  from  the 
front  even  with  an  occasional  air-raid  to  remind  us." 

"I  was  glancing  through  my  diary  the  other  night,"  I 
told  him.  "There's  hardly  a  reference  to  the  war.  The 
political  situation,  my  own  work " 

He  laughed  a  little  sadly. 


160  SONIA  MARRIED 

"If  I  kept  a  diary,  I'm  afraid  I  should  find  a  good  deal 
of  it  devoted  to  Raney  and  his  wife." 

"I  did,"  I  told  him. 

He  looked  up  quickly  and  then  lowered  his  head  until  his 
chin  rested  on  his  fists. 

"God!  that  has  been  a  tragedy!"  he  groaned.  "It's  the 
biggest  tragedy  of  my  life,  bigger  than  when  Jim  Loring 
was  knocked  out.  Presumably  it  was  all  over  with  him  in 
a  few  minutes  or  hours  or  days  at  most.  .  .  .  But  that  poor 
devil  Raney — he's  some  years  younger  than  I  am." 

"What  is  he  doing?" 

"He  gives  no  hint.  It's  about  as  much  as  he  can  stand — 
the  agony  of  it — without  trying  to  analyse  it  or  think  what 
he's  going  to  do  next.  Did  I  tell  you  I  went  down  there 
again  ?  Well,  I  did — in  spite  of  what  he  said.  I've  a  con- 
venient young  cousin  whose  people  are  over  in  Ireland — • 
Violet's  brother,  you  met  her  at  dinner  with  me  at  the  Berk- 
eley— and  I  can  always  legitimately  go  and  see  him.  It  was 
rather  less  of  a  success  than  my  last  visit.  The  first  person 
I  ran  into  was  Lady  Dainton,  who  asked  me  to  shew  her 
the  way  to  Raney's  quarters.  She  couldn't  make  it  out, 
she  said,  that  she'd  written  to  Sonia  about  a  concert  at  the 
hospital,  written  twice  and  had  had  no  reply.  Obviously 
she  was  away  from  home,  but  apparently  it  was  nobody's 
business  to  forward  letters."  George  smiled  ruefully.  "It 
was  a  hit  for  me,  though  she  didn't  know  it.  I  send  all  let- 
ters to  Raney,  and  Sonia's  go  in  a  special  envelope  marked 
'For  filing  only';  it  was  a  formula  he  and  I  agreed  on,  so 
that  Miss  Merryon  could  just  chuck  them  into  a  box  un- 
opened. ...  I  don't  believe  even  she  suspects,  though  it's 
bound  to  come  out.  .  .  .  And  she's  in  love  with  him,  and 
that's  supposed  to  sharpen  a  woman's  intuition.  .  .  .  Well, 
I've  no  doubt  Lady  Dainton's  letters  were  in  the  box  with 
the  rest,  but  that  didn't  bring  her  much  nearer  getting  them 
answered.  I  felt  I  must  really  leave  Raney  to  deal  with 
her,  so  I  said  I'd  promised  to  call  on  the  Head  and  would 
come  back  later.  ...  By  the  way,  Burgess  sees  there's  some- 
thing up;  he'd  see  there  was  something  up  if  you  built  a 


THE  DOOR  CLOSED  161 

brick-wall  round  it.  When  I  went  into  his  study,  he  looked 
at  me  for  about  five  minutes,  stroking  his  beard  between  his 
thumb  and  first  finger.  'He  is  thine  own  familiar  friend, 
whom  thou  lovest/  he  began  without  any  beating  about  the 
bush.  'I  know  the  whole  story,  sir/  I  said.  'If  I  thought 
for  a  week,  I  couldn't  think  of  anything  worse.  If  I  may 
make  a  suggestion,  sir,  the  kindest  thing  you  can  do  is  not 
to  notice  anything/  Burgess  stroked  his  beard  a  bit  more ; 
then  he  said — 'The  adder  is  not  more  deaf/  But  I'm  pre- 
pared to  bet  he's  made  a  very  shrewd  guess." 

"Did  you  gather  how  O'Rane  disposed  of  Lady  Dainton  ?" 
I  asked. 

George  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"He  had  to  say  that  Sonia  wasn't  at  'The  Sanctuary*  and 
he  had  to  admit  that  he  didn't  know  her  address  at  the  mo- 
ment. Fortunately,  Lady  Dainton  is  so  ready  to  think  ill 
of  him  and  so  very  unready  to  think  ill  of  her  darling  daugh- 
ter that  she  never  dreamed  or  suspected  what  had  happened. 
I  don't  know  whether  she  went  further  than  thinking  that 
Sonia  was  staying  with  friends  and  that  Raney  wasn't  suffi- 
ciently interested  in  her  to  discover  her  whereabouts ;  per- 
haps she  did,  for  she  took  the  opportunity  of  saying  that  it 
was  monstrous  for  him  to  desert  his  wife  like  this  for  three 
months  at  a  time,  but  that,  on  her  honour,  he  didn't  deserve 
to  have  a  wife,  if  she  was  to  be  condemned  to  the  life  he  had 
led  at  Melton  or  in  London.  Raney  was  smiling  to  himself 
and  saying  nothing,  when  I  came  in,  so  she  turned  her  bat- 
teries on  to  me.  As  a  rule  she  frightens  me  into  agreeing 
with  anything  she  says,  but  this  time  I  did  pluck  up  courage 
to  tell  her  that,  in  my  opinion,  when  two  people  married, 
they  must  be  left  to  work  out  their  own  salvation.  There's  a 
certain  irony  there,  Stornaway, — I  was  conscious  of  it  at  the 
time — when  you  think  of  the  way  you  and  Bertrand  and 
I  laboured  to  keep  their  boat  from  capsizing.  She  didn't 
appreciate  the  irony,  though ;  she  only  thought  I  was  being 
rather  rude.  That  didn't  matter  so  long  as  I  got  rid  of  her." 

He  pushed  away  his  plate,  sighed  and  rose  from  the 
table. 


i62  SONIA  MARRIED 

"Did  you  have  any  talk  with  O'Rane?"  I  asked,  as  we 
went  upstairs  together. 

"That  depends  on  your  definition  of  talk,"  he  answered 
with  a  joyless  smile.  "We  emitted  words  at  each  other.  It — 
I  don't  mind  telling  you,  Stornaway, — it  hurt  like  sin  to  find 
that  I  couldn't  get  near  him.  I  suppose  it  was  a  compliment 
to  our  friendship  that  he  didn't  try  to  cut  jokes  as  ne  did 
when  I  dined  with  him  in  Common  Room  the  last  time,  but 
it  v/as  an  unfilling  sort  of  compliment.  .  .  .  No,  to  offer  him 
any  kind  of  sympathy  would  have  been  to  get  myself  pitched 
out  of  the  room.  I  felt  that.  He  was  in  a  suit  of  mail.  ...  I 
should  have  thought — but  then  I've  not  been  through  it  and, 
please  God!  I  never  shall.  It  did  hurt,  though,  because 
there  hasn't  been  much  that  we've  kept  from  each  other  all 
these  years." 

He  laughed  a  little  at  his  own  sensibility.  I  thought  for 
a  moment  and  then  told  him  of  my  meeting  that  day  in 
Hyde  Park.  From  behind  their  rimless  glasses,  his  eyes 
were  fixed  unwaveringly  on  mine,  and  at  the  end  he  made 
no  comment. 

"What  line  do  you  propose  to  take  if  you  meet  her?" 
I  asked. 

His  brows  set  in  a  forbidding  frown,  and,  when  he  spoke, 
it  was  between  closed  teeth,  and  his  voice  trembled. 

"I  think  I  told  you,  my  instinct  is  to  get  her  neck  between 
my  two  hands  and  shake  her  as  a  terrier  shakes  a  rat.  I 
suppose  that  would  be  out  of  place  in  the  more  public  parts 
of  London,  so  I  shall  walk  quietly  past  her.  What  induced 
you,  knowing  all  you  did " 

"I  have  no  idea  why  I  did  it,"  I  said,  quite  humbly. 

"Are  you  going  to  do  it  again?" 

"My  dear  George,  once  more,  I  have  no  idea.  I'm  like 
O'Rane  in  that  I  haven't  been  in  the  mood  to  analyse  or 
make  decisions.  I've  shirked  them.  I've  deliberately  tried 
to  keep  my  mind  occupied  with  other  things  so  that  I 
shouldn't  have  to  think  about  this  miserable  business.  Most 
of  us  are  doing  that,  I  fancy." 

He  was  silent  for  many  moments,  and  I  fancied  that  he 


THE  DOOR  CLOSED  163 

was  visualising  my  meeting  in  the  light  of  an  early  summer 
morning  in  Hyde  Park  with  Sonia  O'Rane,  brown-eyed,  red- 
lipped,  redolent — to  the  senses — of  purity  and  young  fresh- 
ness. 

"As  long  as  that  swine's  under  lock  and  key,"  he  said  at 
length,  "she  can't  make  a  move.  And,  when  he's  out,  they're 
bound  to  hold  their  hand  till  they  see  what  Raney's  goinjr 
to  do,  whether  he's  going  to  face  a  divorce — when  I  sa} 
'face/  it's  on  her  account,  of  course.  He'd  stand  anything 
for  himself,  but  I  don't  know  that  he'd  let  any  damned  two- 
and-one  junior  put  questions  to  Sonia — I  don't  know,  and 
he  doesn't  know.  .  .  ."  He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 
"God  in  Heaven !  Stornaway !  I  remember  when  I  was  the 
oldest  fourth-year  man  and  he  was  a  freshman  and  she  was 
nothing  at  all — a  lovely  little  slip  of  a  girl  who'd  been  sent 
up  for  Commem.  in  place  of  a  woman  who'd  failed  us. 
Raney'd  loved  her  ever  since  he'd  first  set  those  god-sent 
eyes  of  his  on  her,  and  they  solemnly  got  engaged  that 
night — when  he  was  nineteen  and  she  a  baby  three  years 
younger.  .  .  ."  The  rising  voice  which  was  beginning  to 
make  our  neighbours  turn  curiously  round  stopped  of  a  sud- 
den. "Sorry!  I'm  apt  to  break  out  every  time  I  think  of 
that  boy  coming  back  from  the  front  .  .  .  and  not  letting 
it  make  that  much  difference  to  him  .  .  .  and  starting  again 
at  the  bottom  for  God-knows-the-how-manyth-time — and 
then — this.  .  .  .  Well,  Raney's  not  in  a  state  to  say  whether 
he'll  divorce  her  or  not,  what  he  will  do,  what  he  wants  to 
do.  You're  quite  right,  we're  none  of  us  in  a  position  to 
analyse.  By  the  way,  what  do  you  propose  to  do,  if  you  run 
intoBeresford?" 

"I  don't  see  myself  engaging  him  in  conversation,"  I  said. 


As  a  false  merit  seems  still  to  attach  to  frankness,  let  me 
record  that,  when  I  met  Beresford  some  three  weeks  later, 
I  bowed  to  him  and  subsequently  went  up  and  exchanged  a 
few  words.  This  meeting  also  took  place  in  Hyde  Park, 


1 64  SONIA  MARRIED 

I  was  again  making  a  slight  detour  for  the  sake  of  seeing 
the  flowers  and  once  more  I  turned  in  at  Albert  Gate  and 
was  nodding  before  I  saw  who  had  nodded  to  me.  When 
I  recognised  Beresford,  there  was  a  moment's  impulse  to 
stalk  away,  but  I  am  glad  to  say  that  I  did  not  yield  to  it. 

He  was  sitting  in  a  bath-chair,  out  of  the  wind  and  in  the 
sun,  alternately  dozing  and  waking  with  a  start  to  look  at 
the  flowers  and  then  close  his  eyes  again.  I  have  seen  sick 
men  in  various  parts  of  the  world,  but  I  doubt  if  I  ever  saw 
one  who  was  still  alive  and  yet  looked  nearer  death.  All 
flesh  had  disappeared  from  his  face,  until  the  bones  of  jaw, 
temple  and  nose  threatened  to  cut  through  the  waxen  skin ; 
his  eye-lids  were  more  vermilion  than  pink,  with  a  permanent 
dusty-grey  shadow  darkening  the  hollow  sockets.  One  hand 
lay  exposed  outside  the  rug,  so  thin  that  it  seemed  as  if  the 
bones  must  grate  together ;  the  other  pressed  painfully  to  his 
side  whenever  he  began  to  cough. 

"Why,  how  do  you  do  ?"  he  exclaimed  in  a  weak  whisper, 
bowing  a  second  time,  as  his  eye-lids  flickered  open  and  he 
found  me  watching  him. 

"You  look  remarkably  ill,"  was  all  I  could  say. 

"I'm  better  than  I  have  been.  It  was  really  rather  a  close 
shave  this  time.  They  evidently  felt  it  was  a  point  of  honour 
not  to  be  beaten  again  and  they  kept  me  there  just  twenty- 
four  hours  longer  than  I  could  conveniently  stand.  I  wasn't 
conscious  of  anything, — I  hadn't  been  for  some  while  before 
and  I  wasn't  to  be  for  some  time  after — but  they  had  a  bad 
scare.  After  doing  their  best  to  kill  me  for  five  days,  they 
spent  five  weeks  trying  to  keep  me  alive — so  like  war  and 
peace,  you  know;  wasteful,  irrational  and  utterly,  utterly 
purposeless.  In  a  few  weeks'  time  I  shall  be  where  I  was 
when  last  we  met ;  the  Government  will  have  kept  me  quiet 
for  perhaps  two  months  and  will  have  expended  a  portion  of 
a  magistrate's  time,  ditto  ditto  prosecuting  counsel,  and  six 
weeks'  bed,  board,  share  of  prison  staff  and  really  first-rate 
medical  attention.  No  one  could  have  been  better  treated 
when  once  they  were  afraid  they'd  killed  me." 

He  tried  to  laugh,  but  only  succeeded  in  making  himself 


THE  DOOR  CLOSED  165 

cough.  As  he  shook  and  rocked,  growing  momentarily  pink 
and  then  reverting  to  a  deathlier  white,  as  I  watched  that 
bag  of  tuberculous  bones  being  held  together  by  a  nervous 
refusal  to  die,  I  shared  the  sense  of  waste  which  O'Rane 
had  once  expressed  to  me.  An  impulse  came  to  me,  and 
I  acted  on  it  before  I  could  give  myself  time  to  be  cautious 
and  niggardly. 

"If  I  can  get  you  out  to  South  Africa,  will  you  go?"  I 
asked  him. 

He  tried  to  speak  before  he  had  finished  coughing,  and 
the  attack  redoubled  in  violence. 

"That  would  be  playing  their  game  rather  too  much,"  he 
said  with  a  skeleton's  grin. 

"You're  playing  their  game  as  quickly  and  more  per- 
manently by  staying  here." 

"You  mean  I'm  going  to  die?  Now,  there  you're  wrong. 
Of  course,  I  shall  die  some  time  like  everyone  else,  but  I'm 
actually  getting  better  now.  If  you'd  seen  me  a  month 

ago !"  He  looked  round  at  the  flowers  with  eyes  that 

burned  feverishly.  "I've  got  so  much  to  do,  there's  so  much 
to  live  for!  Don't  you  feel  you  can't  die,  you  won't  die, 
when  you  see  all  the  new  leaves  with  that  shade  of  green 
which  seems  only  to  last  for  a  day  before  it  becomes  dark, 
dull,  mature,  dirty.  .  .  .  And  the  first  flowers — before  weVe 
had  time  to  be  sated  with  them.  This  is  June,  summer.  .  .  . 
And  long  before  that,  the  little  pink,  sticky  buds  bursting 
everywhere.  .  .  .  And  those  curious  fluffy  things  which  you 
find  on  some  shrubs  and  which  seem  to  serve  no  purpose  in 
nature.  ...  I  shall  die  in  the  autumn,  when  I  do  die;  I 
couldn't  in  the  spring,  when  the  whole  world's  renewing 
itself  and  there's  so  much  to  do.  God !  there  is  so  much  to 
do!" 

He  smiled  to  himself,  and  his  eyes  suddenly  closed.  It 
was  more  than  time  for  me  to  be  on  my  way,  but  the  scrape 
of  my  heel  on  the  gravel  roused  him,  and  he  held  out  his 
hand. 

"It  was  kind  of  you — about  South  Africa,  I  mean, — but  I 
Can't  get  away — for  reasons  which  I  needn't  discuss.  And  in 


1 66  SONIA  MARRIED 

any  event  it  isn't  necessary;  I'm  going  to  get  well  without 
that." 

I  shook  hands  and  turned  my  steps  eastwards.  There  are 
few  things  more  painful  than  the  dying  consumptive's  belief 
that  he  will  recover.  Beresford  called  me  back  with  a  cry 
that  brought  on  another  fit  of  coughing. 

"I'm  in  my  old  quarters,"  he  said.  "You  were  rather — • 
disgruntled  by  your  last  visit,  I  remember,  but,  if  you've  got 
over  the  shock  and  can  ever  spare  a  moment  to  call " 

This  time  I  shook  my  head  without  hesitation  or  compas- 
sion. I  do  not  remember  ever  being  more  affronted.  A 
chance  encounter  in  the  street  might  be  excused  me;  one 
may  be  pardoned  for  not  upbraiding  one's  worst  enemy  when 
he  is  as  near  his  death-bed  as  Beresford  was ;  but  it  was  an- 
other thing  altogether  to  condone  the  past  and  acquiesce  in 
the  present.  It  was  also  what  Mrs.  O'Rane  had  virtually 
challenged  me  to  do,  when  she  lost  her  temper  in  Beresford's 
flat  and  asked  whether  I  should  continue  to  know  her  when 
she  had  come  to  live  with  him. 

"I  shall  not  call,"  I  said.    "Good-bye." 

Thereafter  I  denied  myself  the  walk  from  Albert  Gate  to 
Hyde  Park  Corner  and  went  to  my  office  through  Belgrave 
Square  and  the  Green  Park. 

I  kept  my  own  counsel  about  our  meeting  and  went  on 
with  my  own  work,  trying  not  to  think  of  the  O'Rane  trag- 
edy until  it  was  brought  to  my  notice  by  a  chance  encounter 
with  O'Rane  himself.  I  was  deliberately  not  seeking  his 
company,  but  I  was  pleased  when  he  joined  me  in  the  Smok- 
ing Room  at  the  House. 

"Your  voice  at  least  is  quite  unmistakable,"  he  said  with 
his  old  smile.  "So  is  Grayle's.  The  people  who  beat  me  are 
most  of  the  Irish  and  a  sprinkling  of  the  Labour  men — fel- 
lows who  don't  open  their  mouths  from  one  end  of  the  ses- 
sion to  the  other.  And  I'm  here  so  little  that  it's  slow  work 
learning.  Still,  I'll  back  myself  to  be  right  ninety-five  times 
out  of  a  hundred,  if  I've  heard  a  voice  more  than  once.  Do 
you  know  whether  old  Oakleigh  is  about?" 

"I  saw  him  here  before  dinner,"  I  said. 


THE  DOOR  CLOSED  167 

"I  promised  to  walk  home  with  him.  Why  don't  you 
come  along,  too?  There's  nothing  of  any  interest  on,  and 
you  can  smoke  in  greater  comfort  at  my  place.  Let's  see  if 
we  can  hunt  him  out." 

Bertrand  had  sat  down  late,  and  we  found  him  finishing 
his  coffee  in  an  almost  deserted  dining-room.  It  was  still 
light,  however,  when  we  got  outside,  and  we  strolled  at  an 
easy  pace  along  Millbank  to  "The  Sanctuary/'  I  had  not 
been  there  since  the  night  nearly  three  months  before  when 
O'Rane's  life  was  broken  in  two.  As  we  walked,  I  thought 
of  the  other  night  when  Grayle  and  I  met  him  for  the  first 
time,  when,  too,  he  had  carried  Beresford  on  his  own  back 
into  the  now  empty  house.  He  could  not  but  be  thinking  of 
it  himself,  and  I  hardly  knew  whether  to  pity  or  admire  him 
the  more  for  his  unembarrassed  way  of  admitting  us  to  his 
secret  without  suffering  us  to  allude  to  it. 

Unlocking  the  door,  he  went  ahead  to  turn  on  the  lights, 
came  back  to  relieve  us  of  our  coats  and  bade  us  help  our- 
selves from  the  side-board,  while  he  opened  a  box  of  cigars. 
Perhaps  from  nervousness  he  talked  rather  more  than  usual 
and  shewed  himself  unnecessarily  solicitous  for  our  com- 
fort; otherwise  we  might  have  been  sitting,  as  we  occa- 
sionally sat  ten  months  before,  waiting  for  Mrs.  O'Rane  to 
come  back  from  the  theatre.  ...  I  confess  that  I  started — I 
believe  we  all  started — when  we  heard  a  taxi  draw  nearer 
and  nearer,  turn  out  of  Millbank  and  stop  at  the  door.  Ber- 
trand and  I  were  facing  the  room,  and  we  both  of  us  gave 
a  quick  glance  over  our  shoulders.  O'Rane  continued  talk- 
ing unconcernedly,  only  stopping  when  the  curtain  was 
pushed  aside  and  George  came  in. 

"It's  a  great  thing  to  have  a  place  where  you  can  be  sure 
of  a  drink  after  licensed  hours,"  he  remarked  contentedly. 
"I've  had  no  dinner  and  not  much  lunch ;  and  I've  left  the 
Admiralty  this  moment.  This  war's  got  beyond  the  joke 
some  people  still  think  it.  Don't  mind  me,  Raney,  I'm  going 
to  fend  for  myself  and  eat  solidly  for  the  next  half -hour. 
What's  the  question  before  the  House?" 

He  seated  himself  on  the  arm  of  my  chair  with  a  hunk 


1  68  SONIA  MARRIED 

of  bread  and  cheese  in  one  hand  and  a  tumbler  of  whiskey 
and  soda  in  the  other.  We  were  talking  of  the  way  in 
which  our  original  intervention  on  behalf  of  Belgian  »eu- 
trality  had  been  overlaid  by  the  nationalist  ambitions  of 
Italy  in  south  Austria,  France  in  Alsace-Lorraine,  and  by 
the  frankly  imperialist  trend  of  Russia  towards  Constanti- 
nople and  of  ourselves  towards  Mesopotamia  and  in  Africa 
and  the  Pacific. 

"It  may  have  been  wise,  it  may  be  necessary,"  said 
O'Rane  dubiously.  "Perhaps  you  couldn't  bring  Italy  in 
without  promising  Trieste  and  the  Trentino,  perhaps  you 
couldn't  keep  Russia  in  without  promising  Constantinople." 

Bertrand  sighed  and  then  yawned. 

"I  wonder  if  we've  not  bitten  off  more  than  we  can  chew," 
he  growled.  "I  went  through  the  phase  of  'crushing  Prus- 
sian militarism/  cutting  up  the  map  of  Europe  with  a  pair 
of  scissors.  ...  I  hope  nobody  will  put  me  up  against  a 
wall  and  shoot  me,  if  I  now  doubt  the  possibility.  I  don't 
believe  we  can  crush  Prussian  militarism." 


The  words,  spoken  in  a  familiar,  sneering  drawl,  came 
from  behind  me.  Bertrand  and  I  swung  round  in  our  chairs 
to  face  the  door;  George  leapt  to  his  feet,  letting  fall  his 
bread  and  cheese  and  discharging  a  torrent  of  whiskey  and 
soda  into  my  lap.  If  the  ghost  of  Peter  Beresford  had 
walked  in  to  reinforce  Bertrand  at  the  point  where  their  doc- 
trines most  nearly  touched,  he  could  not  have  dumbfounded 
us  more.  But  it  was  not  Beresford's  ghost.  The  July  night 
was  descending  so  slowly  that  we  were  content  with  a  single 
lamp  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  In  the  gathering  dusk 
by  the  door,  standing  out  against  the  orange  glow  of  the 
door-curtain,  I  saw  Beresford  himself,  leaning  with  one  hand 
on  a  stick  and  grasping  a  shapeless  soft  hat  with  the  other. 
He  was  as  waxen  of  complexion  and  almost  as  cadaverous  as 
when  we  met  in  the  Park  three  weeks  before,  but  he  had 
made  a  spasmodic  effort  to  seem  collected  on  entering,  and 
the  sneer  in  his  voice  was  reproduced  by  a  suggestion  of 
swaggering  contempt  in  his  attitude. 


THE  DOOR  CLOSED  169 

I  wondered  helplessly  and  almost  without  anger  why  he 
had  inflicted  this  outrage  upon  us.  Trembling  and  speech- 
less, Bertrand  propelled  himself  slowly  to  his  feet ;  speech- 
less and  breathing  quickly,  George  took  two  steps  forward. 
We  were  all  too  much  preoccupied  to  look  behind  and  see 
what  O'Rane  was  doing  until  I  heard  what  I  can  only  de- 
scribe as  a  rattle  in  the  throat;  Beresford's  eyes  opened 
wider,  and  he  took  a  half -step  back;  I  turned  my  head  in 
time  to  see  O'Rane  spring  like  an  animal  on  its  prey,  both 
arms  outstretched  and  both  feet  off  the  ground.  There  was 
a  thud,  as  the  two  fell  together,  a  gasp  from  Beresford,  the 
noise  of  boots  scuffling  on  polished  boards  and  then  a  silence 
only  modified  by  laboured  breathing. 

George  was  the  first  to  move. 

"He'll  kill  him  1"  he  called  back  to  us.  "Help  me  separate 
them!" 

As  quickly  as  an  old  and  a  middle-aged  man  could  move, 
Bertrand  and  I  hurried  to  his  assistance.  O'Rane  was  strad- 
dling Beresford's  body,  pinning  both  arms  to  the  floor  with 
his  knees  and  gripping  his  throat  with  both  hands  until  the 
eyes  glared  in  the  early  stages  of  asphyxiation  and  the  mouth 
fell  open,  gobbling  hideously.  The  face  was  swollen  and 
mulberry-coloured  by  the  time  that  we  could  see  it,  and 
the  first  feeble  resistance  had  given  place  to  the  dreadful 
placidity  of  physical  exhaustion. 

"You  fool,  you're  murdering  him!"  George  roared,  slip- 
ping both  hands  inside  O'Rane's  collar  and  putting  forth  a 
reserve  of  strength  which  lifted  assailant  and  assailed  bodily 
from  the  ground.  "Pull  his  hands  away,  you  men !" 

I  caught  O'Rane's  left  wrist  in  both  hands,  but  the  pol- 
ished floor  gave  no  purchase  to  my  feet,  and  I  might  as 
well  have  tried  to  pluck  a  propeller  from  its  shaft.  His 
arms  were  like  flexible,  warm  steel.  When  I  planted  my 
foot  against  his  shoulder,  it  was  like  resting  it  on  masonry 
that  quivered  slipperily,  but  never  yielded. 

"Fingers,  man,  fingers !"  George  snouted  again.  "Pull  'em 
apart,  twist  'em,  hurt  him!" 

I  take  no  pride  in  having  followed  his  advice  save  in  so 


170  SONIA  MARRIED 

far  as  it  saved  the  boy  from  the  scaffold.  Bertrand  and  I, 
each  with  our  two  hands,  gripped  O'Rane's  third  and  fourth 
fingers,  tugged  and  twisted  until  a  stifled  cry  of  pain  broke 
from  his  lips.  George  was  shaking  him  like  a  rat,  and  at  last 
the  grip  relaxed  and 'Beres  ford's  head  fell  with  a  second  thud 
on  the  floor. 

"Don't  let  go!"  cried  George.  "Now,  Raney,  will  you 
swear  on  your  honour  not  to  touch  him  again?" 

There  was  a  sullen,  long  silence  varied  by  the  rip  of  rend- 
ing clothes  and  the  clatter  of  feet,  as  O'Rane  made  three 
unsuccessful  plunges  forward. 

"You're — hurting  my — hand!"  he  panted  at  length  with 
the  whimper  of  a  little  child. 

George  shook  his  head  at  me  passionately. 

"Will  you  swear  on  your  honour,  Raney  ?" 

"Let  me— #*f  at  him !"  O'Rane  sobbed. 

"We'll  break  your  fingers  off  at  the  knuckles  if  you  don't 
swear !"  George  returned  through  clenched  teeth. 

There  was  a  second  silence,  a  last  plunge. 

"I  won't  touch  him,"  sighed  O'Rane. 

We  stepped  back,  panting  and  mopping  our  foreheads; 
then  Bertrand  walked  to  the  nearest  chair  and  subsided  into 
it;  I  leaned  against  a  sofa;  George  stood  for  a  moment, 
rocking  from  his  late  exertion,  then  pressed  one  hand  to 
his  heart  and  hurried  into  the  street,  covering  his  mouth 
with  a  handkerchief.  O'Rane  stood  where  we  had  relaxed 
our  hold  on  him,  bending  and  unbending  his  tortured  rin- 
gers ;  Beres  ford  lay  motionless  and  silent. 

George's  re-appearance  with  a  request  for  brandy  galvan- 
ised us  all,  but  chiefly  O'Rane,  who  walked  up  to  him  with 
out-thrust  lips  and  cried : 

"You  can  clear  out  of  this,  George  Oakleigh,  and  I  don't 
advise  you  to  come  back  here." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Raney,"  George  answered  wearily. 

"If  you  hadn't  put  them  up  to  it " 

"That's  precisely  why  I  did  it.  It  was  the  only  way  of 
stopping  you.  Don't  think  I  enjoyed  it,  old  man."  He 
caught  O'Rane's  right  hand  between  his  own  two  and  patted 


THE  DOOR  CLOSED  171 

it,  as  if  he  were  caressing  a  woman.  I  learned  afterwards 
that  in  addition  to  losing  his  sight  O'Rane  had  been  wounded 
in  both  hands.  "Go  and  get  some  brandy — or  wait,  I'll  get 
the  brandy,  while  you  lift  Beresford  on  to  a  sofa.  I've 
pulled  my  heart  out  of  place." 

Between  us  we  made  a  rough  bed  and  tried  to  bring  the 
unconscious  man  round.  His  heart  was  fluttering  like  a 
captive  bird,  and  for  longer  than  I  cared  to  count  there  was 
no  other  sign  of  life.  At  last  the  eyes  opened  for  a  moment, 
and  I  saw  George  relax  his  labours  and  lead  O'Rane  to  one 
side. 

"You'd  better  go  to  bed,  old  man,"  he  said.  "I'll  report 
progress  later,  and  we'll  get  him  away  as  soon  as  we  can. 
You'll  only  make  things  worse,  if  you're  here  when  he  comes 
round." 

To  my  surprise,  O'Rane  allowed  himself  to  be  led  away, 
and  George  returned  to  share  our  vigil.  A  second  and  third 
time  the  eyes  opened ;  twice  Beresford  tried  to  raise  himself 
and  once  his  lips  moved  in  soundless  speech. 

"Don't  try  to  talk,"  I  said,  as  I  gave  him  some  water  to 
drink. 

He  closed  his  eyes,  and  a  quarter  of  an  hour  passed  before 
they  opened  again. 

"W — w — why ?"  he  stammered  suddenly. 

"Don't— try— to — talk,"  I  said  again. 

"But  w — why  did  he  do  that?"  Beresford  persisted  with 
slow  obstinacy.  "Is  he  m — m — mad?" 

George,  Bertrand  and  I  stared  at  him  and  then  at  one  an- 
other. 

"Don't  try  to  talk  yet,"  was  all  that  I  could  find  to  say. 


Bertrand  allowed  himself  to  be  sent  to  bed  at  midnight, 
but  George  and  I  took  it  in  turns  to  watch  by  Beresford's 
side.  We  had  a  doctor  in,  but  the  danger  was  past  before  he 
arrived,  and  his  only  orders  were  that  we  must  report  any 
change.  Until  dawn  we  tried  sleeping  for  an  hour  and 


172  SONIA  MARRIED 

watching  for  an  hour,  but,  as  an  opal  light  came  to  warm 
the  rafters  on  the  west  side  of  the  room,  George  sacrificed 
his  turn  to  sleep  and  joined  me  on  the  sofa. 

We  looked  at  each  other  for  some  moments  without 
speaking,  both  equally  tired,  dishevelled,  unshaven  and  per- 
plexed. 

"Well?"  I  said  at  length. 

"Well  ?"  he  echoed.  "By  the  way,  I  promised  to  report 
progress  to  Raney;  and  I  never  did.  I  don't  see  what  we 
can  say  at  present.  WeVe  got  to  clear  this  up  before  he 
comes  down." 

"What  do  you  think?"  I  asked. 

George  hesitated. 

"The  fact  of  the  fellow's  coming  here  at  all — — "  he  began 
slowly. 

I  nodded. 

"We  must  wait  till  we  can  question  him  direct,"  he  went 
on  evasively. 

"But,  if  we're  right,  he  mustn't  know,"  I  put  in. 

"Till  everyone  knows,"  sighed  George. 

Beresford  stirred  restlessly,  and  the  sound  of  a  moan 
silenced  us. 

"If — "  George  began  again  in  a  whisper.  I  nodded.  "God 
above !  if  we  hadn't  managed  to  pull  him  off  in  time !" 

I  put  my  finger  to  my  lips,  as  Beresford  stirred  again. 

"He's  waking." 

We  were  sitting  in  a  line  with  his  head  and  outside  his 
field  of  vision,  unless  he  raised  himself  on  his  elbow,  which 
at  present  he  was  incapable  of  doing.  We  saw  his  eyes  open 
and  close  again,  open  and  close  again,  the  opening  each  time 
growing  brisker  than  the  faint  closing,  until  he  was  strong 
enough  to  stare  about  him  and  take  in  two- thirds  of  the 
room.  I  saw  wonder  dawning  in  his  face  as  he  found  him- 
self unexpectedly  in  familiar  surroundings;  he  carried  his 
hand  to  his  head  in  the  effort  to  remember  how  he  had  got 
there ;  then  his  fingers  mechanically  slid  down  to  his  throat, 
and  I  watched  him  gingerly  exploring  certain  purple  marks. 
Abruptly  his  eyes  closed  for  another  long  quiescence,  but  he 


THE  DOOR  CLOSED  173 

was  gaining  strength  and  at  the  next  opening  he  dragged 
himself  unsteadily  to  a  sitting  posture,  clapped  both  hands 
to  his  temples  and  slowly  turned  his  head  until  he  had 
brought  the  whole  room  under  observation. 

"Where's  Sonia?"  he  demanded  abruptly,  looking  at  me 
with  flickering  eyelids. 

"She's  not  here  at  the  moment,"  I  answered. 

He  stared  uncomprehendingly  until  a  pain  at  the  bruised 
back  of  his  head  made  him  wince  and  despatch  one  hand  to 
assess  the  danger. 

"How  long "  He  winced  again.  "How  long  have  I 

been  here?" 

"Since  last  night/'  I  told  him.    "You  had  a  fall." 

He  continued  to  stare  at  me  without  comprehension  and 
then  grew  suddenly  indignant. 

"Had  a  fall?"  he  repeated.  "I  didn't  have  a  fall.  What 
d'you  mean?  It's  all  coming  back  to  me  now.  I  was  din- 
ing— I  don't  know  where  I  was  dining,  but  afterwards  I 
thought  I'd  come  round  and  see  Sonia.  .  .  .  Why  did  O'Rane 
attack  me  like  that?  Was  he  mad?" 

George's  foot  pressed  lightly  against  mine. 

"What  do  you  mean — 'attack'  you?"  he  asked  with  fine 
simulation  of  surprise. 

"He  attacked  me,"  Beresford  persisted  doggedly.  "He 
knocked  me  down."  His  eyes  closed  once  more.  "Where's 
Sonia?"  he  asked  again. 

"She's  staying  with  friends,"  George  answered.  "I  say,  I 
shouldn't  talk  too  much,  if  I  were  you.  You're  looking 
rather  cheap,  and  I  hear  you've  been  pretty  bad." 

For  the  first  time  Beresford  was  able  to  twist  his  features 
into  a  malevolent  grin. 

"I'm  putting  on  weight  again  now,"  he  boasted.  "You'd 
look  cheap,  if  you'd  gone  through  what  I  have." 

"How  long  were  you  in  prison  ?"  I  asked. 

Beresford  sighed  and  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  know.  I  was  unconscious  for  some  days  at  the 
end.  They  arrested  me  on  the  third,  the  trial  was  on — I 


174  SONIA  MARRIED 

forget. .  . ."  He  lowered  himself  till  he  was  lying  full  length 
on  the  sofa. 

"They  arrested  you  on  the  fourth,  you  say,"  I  began  with 
a  glance  at  George. 

"The  third.  My  birthday,"  he  corrected  me,  caressing  his 
bruised  throat  with  one  hand.  "There  was  a  ring  at  the 
bell,  and  I  got  out  of  bed  and  went  to  the  door,  expecting 
to  find  the  postman.  Instead  of  that,  there  was  an  inspector 
with  a  warrant.  He  asked  whether  I  was  Mr.  Peter  Beres- 
ford,  read  me  the  warrant.  He  wouldn't  let  me  shave,  I 
remember ;  I  suppose  he  was  afraid  I  might  cut  my  throat ; 
and  I  was  only  allowed  to  have  a  bath  on  condition  that  he 
was  in  the  room.  I  don't  know  which  was  the  more  em- 
barrassed. .  .  ." 

He  paused  to  laugh  feebly,  and  I  withdrew  to  the  window 
and  checked  his  date  by  my  engagement  book.  George 
raised  his  eyebrows  to  me  and  at  my  nod  tiptoed  to  the 
door  and  made  his  way  to  O'Rane's  room. 

"What  happened  last  night?"  Beresford  demanded,  cov- 
ering his  eyes  with  the  hand  that  had  been  feeling  his  throat 
and  rubbing  his  bruised  head  with  the  other.  "Was  everyone 
drunk?" 

"I  can't  quite  explain  now,"  I  said. 

Whether  O'Rane  had  been  to  bed  or  not,  he  was  washed 
and  shaved,  dressed  and  booted,  when  George  went  into  his 
room  at  five  o'clock.  Beresford  was  reported  out  of  danger, 
and  after  some  hesitation  George  asked  again  to  be  given 
the  fullest  account  of  O'Rane's  unexpected  return  two 
months  before. 

"I'll  tell  you  my  reason  now,"  he  said,  as  O'Rane's  ex- 
pression hardened.  "I  want  to  make  certain — I'm  advocatus 
diaboli, — I  want  your  evidence  that  it  was  Beresford  at 
all." 

"Evidence?  I  heard  him,  she  admitted  it!  Who  else 
could  it  be  ?  And  he  comes  back  here " 

"Steady  on,  Raney,  this  is  no  way  to  conduct  a  trial.  I'm 
going  to  get  Stornaway  up  here,  if  I  can,  and  we're  going 
into  this  very  thoroughly." 


THE  DOOR  CLOSED  175 

Beresford  was  sleeping  so  tranquilly  that  I  left  him  with- 
out compunction.  Upstairs  the  court  of  enquiry  had  been 
joined  by  Bertrand  in  pyjamas,  dressing-gown,  and  slippers ; 
George  was  sitting  on  the  bed  with  a  blotter  and  writing-pad 
on  his  knee,  O'Rane  walked  to  and  fro  with  the  noiseless 
tread  of  a  cat.  We  were  all  grey-faced  and  haggard  in  the 
diamond,  five-o'clock-in-the-morning  light.  I  found  myself 
a  chair,  and  the  proceedings  opened  with  a  repetition  of  the 
story  which  Bertrand  had  given  me  as  second-hand.  It 
was  more  temperate  and  less  dramatic,  as  O'Rane  told  it 
two  months  after  the  events ;  it  was  slightly  fuller,  but  in  no 
respect  did  it  vary  substantially  from  the  earlier  account. 

"I'm  not  a  lawyer."  George  said  at  the  end,  looking  up 
from  his  notes,  "whether  you'd  get  a  divorce  on  that,  as- 
suming you  wanted  one  .  .  ."  he  added  quickly,  as  O'Rane's 
eyes  narrowed.  "We  haven't  finished  yet,  though.  You  say 
Sonia  admitted  it?" 

O'Rane  nodded  and  then  seemed  to  repent  his  nod. 

"She  didn't  deny  it,"  he  said  to  correct  himself.  "I  say, 
you  fellows  don't  want  me  to  go  into  this  part  of  it,  do  you? 
It's  not  very  pleasant  for  me.  I'll  just  tell  you  that  I  as- 
sumed it  was  Beresford " 

"Why  did  you  assume  it?"  I  interrupted. 

"She  was  very  intimate  with  him.  She  used  to  talk — I 
thought  it  was  in  joke,  of  course,  a  silly  joke  that  I  didn't 
like — she  used  to  talk  about  going  off  and  living  with  him, 
if  we  ever  had  a  disagreement  about  anything.  Besides,  I'd 
heard  him  hopping  out  of  here  and  down  the  stairs  on 
one  leg.  I  naturally  assumed.  .  .  .  And  she  accepted  it.  I — 
I  can't  tell  you  what  we  said  to  each  other,  but  it  was  never 
in  doubt,  it  never  has  been  in  doubt  till  this  moment." 

George  pursed  up  his  mouth  and  shook  his  head  re- 
flectively. 

"This  is  only  telling  us  what  the  sergeant  said,"  he  ob- 
served. "However,  let's  get  every  shred  of  evidence  before 
we  let  Beresford  open." 

He  looked  enquiringly  at  his  uncle,  who  shrugged  his 
shoulders  a  little  impatiently. 


176  SONIA  MARRIED 

"It's  not  evidence"  Bertrand  began.  "I'm  old-fashioned, 
I  daresay  I  attach  too  much  importance  to  trifles ;  I  can  only 
give  you  what  I've  seen  and  heard." 

It  was  indeed  not  direct  evidence,  it  was  not  even  cir- 
cumstantial evidence.  Mrs.  O'Rane  had  been  very  intimate 
with  Beresf ord ;  when  he  was  lying  ill  at  "The  Sanctuary," 
she  would  sit  stroking  his  hand;  they  sometimes  remained 
together  until  a  very  late  hour,  and  she  thought  nothing  of 
kissing  him  good-night.  On  his  side  Beresford  made  no 
secret  of  his  infatuation. 

"Neither  made  any  secret  of  anything!"  growled  Ber- 
trand, thumping  his  fist  on  his  knee.  ...  "I  suppose  it's  the 
modern  method.  ...  I  don't  understand  it.  That's  why 
I  say  my  evidence  is  no  use.  If  you  get  up  and  tell  them 
they've  no  business  to  be  kissing,  they'll  retort  that  it  was 
all  open  and  above-board,  that  I  was  present  as  often  as 
not.  .  .  .  And  it's  true.  I  used  to  come  in  late  from  the 
House,  I  used  to  come  in  at  all  hours  when  I  was  on  Spe- 
cial Constable  duty ;  there  they  were,  billing  and  cooing  and 
not  in  the  least  embarrassed  by  me.  You'd  have  said  they 
rather  liked  an  audience." 

The  unhappy  O'Rane  was  wincing  at  every  sneer  or  word 
of  disapproval.  Two  months  before  he  would  have  turned 
it  off  with  a  laugh,  as  everyone  else  did,  and  protested  that 
it  was  Sonia's  way  and  that  we  did  not  know  Sonia.  .  .  . 
But,  if  he  could  have  been  induced  to  speak  frankly,  he 
would  probably  have  agreed  with  me  that  some  of  his  wife's 
friends  and  a  good  deal  of  his  wife's  behaviour  were  mere- 
tricious. 

"I'd  better  add  my  testimony,  while  we're  about  it,"  I 
said.  The  boy  winced  again,  and  I  could  see  him  bracing 
himself. 

I  told  him  how  at  his  request  I  had  called  on  Beresford  to 
warn  him  against  running  his  head  any  further  into  the  trap 
which  was  being  laid  for  him.  I  described  his  obvious  anx- 
iety to  get  rid  of  me,  the  embarrassment  of  our  meeting, 
when  Mrs.  O'Rane  came  in,  her  light-hearted  assurance  that 
I  should  be  really  shocked,  or  something  of  the  kind,  if  I 


THE  DOOR  CLOSED  177 

knew  how  often  she  had  visited  her  patient  at  such  an  hour. 
It  was  not  pleasant  work,  but  I  spared  O'Rane  nothing  that 
my  memory  retained. 

At  the  end  George  crumpled  his  notes  into  a  ball  and  rose 
from  the  bed  with  a  yawn  of  mental  and  physical  exhaus- 
tion. 

"As  I  said,  I'm  not  a  lawyer,"  he  observed.  "If  Raney 
were  bringing  a  petition,  there's  a  hundred-to-one  chance  in 
favour  of  his  getting  a  decree;  I  suppose  there's  a  six-to- 
four  chance  on  circumstantial  evidence  that  you  could  bring 
the-  charge  of  misconduct  home  to  Beresford."  He  paused  to 
frown  in  perplexity,  unconscious  that  the  word  "miscon- 
duct" had  cut  O'Rane  like  a  lash  across  the  face.  "If  it 
weren't  for  last  night,"  he  muttered.  "It's — almost  incom- 
prehensible. Unless  he  came  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it, 
to  tell  Raney  to  divorce  her  and  be  damned.  .  .  ." 

O'Rane  stopped  short  in  his  cat-like  prowl  and  faced  us. 

"The  only  thing  is  to  see  Beresford,"  he  said.  "You'd 
better  come  with  me.  I  can  tell  something  from  his  voice, 
but  of  course  I  can't  see  him.  Watch  his  mouth,  don't  look 
at  his  eyes ;  it's  the  mouth  that  gives  a  man  away,  when  he's 
lying." 

The  library  was  stale  with  cigar-smoke  after  our  long 
vigil.  Beresford  was  asleep,  but  the  noise  of  our  feet  roused 
him,  and  he  sat  up  blinking  at  O'Rane,  who  was  a  pace  be- 
fore the  rest  of  us. 

"Why  did  you  attack  me  last  night?"  he  demanded  the 
moment  that  we  were  in  sight. 

O'Rane  came  to  a  standstill  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
swaying  slightly  from  heel  to  toe. 

"We'll  go  into  that  in  a  moment,  if  you  don't  mind,"  was 
the  answer.  "What  was  your  motive  in  coming  here  ?" 

I  had  Beresford  under  vigilant  scrutiny,  and  his  surprise 
was  real  or  uncommonly  well  assumed. 

"To  see  Sonia,  of  course,"  he  replied.  "I  didn't  know 
you  were  at  home.  Do  you  usually  try  to  murder  people 
who  come  to  see  her  ?"  he  demanded  with  weak  truculence. 


178  SONIA  MARRIED 

"I  know,  of  course,  that  you  neglect  her  and  ill-treat  her 
yourself." 

O'Rane  rocked  contemplatively  to  and  fro,  nodding 
thoughtfully  to  himself. 

"When  did  you  last  see  my  wife?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

"I  can't  tell  you." 

"You've  got  to  tell  me,  Beresford." 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't.  I  spent  six  weeks  in  prison  and  I've 
had  another  fortnight  getting  convalescent.  It  was  some 
time  before  that." 

"You  have  got  to  tell  me  the  day,  the  hour  and  the  place." 

Beresford  lay  back  with  his  mouth  obstinately  shut. 

"Come  along!"  O'Rane  cried. 

"I  can't  and  I  won't.  It  was  some  time  shortly  before  I 
was  arrested.  If  you  want  to  find  out  any  more,  you  can 
ask  her." 

I  refreshed  my  memory  with  a  glance  at  my  pocket- 
book. 

"You  were  arrested  on  the  third  of  May,  you  told  me," 
I  said.  "Going  back  three  weeks,  I  can  definitely  trace  one 
occasion  on  which  you  met  Mrs.  O'Rane " 

Beres ford's  pale  face  suddenly  flushed. 

"If  you're  going  to  drag  in  your  foul-minded  suspicions 
about  that,"  he  cried,  "have  the  decency  to  wait  till  Sonia's 
here." 

"I  told  you  that  Mrs.  O'Rane  was  away,"  I  reminded  him. 
Then  I  took  O'Rane  by  the  arm.  "I  want  to  have  a  word 
with  you." 

I  was  too  tired  to  labour  upstairs  again,  and  we  could 
be  by  ourselves  outside.  There  was  a  haze  over  the  river, 
rising  almost  before  my  eyes,  as  the  sun  climbed  higher.  A 
succession  of  young  factory  girls  hurried  along  the  Embank- 
ment on  their  way  to  work;  one  or  two  early  carts  rum- 
bled over  the  cobble-stones  in  the  neighbouring  streets,  and 
a  chain  of  three  black  barges  glided  noiselessly  towards 
Westminster  Bridge.  All  else  was  still.  I  caught  sight  of 
my  dusty  boots,  the  cigar-ash  on  my  waistcoat  and  a  pair  of 


THE  DOOR  CLOSED  179 

grimy  hands, — the  whole  desecrating  the  clean  clarity  of 
the  summer  morning. 

"Well?"  said  O'Rane. 

I  put  my  arm  through  his  and  walked  towards  the  river. 

"I'm  prepared  to  bet  that  the  last  time  Beresford  saw 
your  wife  was  when  I  spoiled  their  tete-a-tete  in  his  rooms/' 
I  said.  "He  doesn't  know  I've  told  you  already  and  he's  in 
dread  that  I'm  going  to.  Didn't  you  feel  that?  And  it's 
not  that  he's  afraid  of  you — I  don't  think,  he's  physically 
afraid  of  anyone; — he  doesn't  want  you  to  know  that  she 
was  foolish  enough  to  come  to  his  rooms  at  such  an  hour." 

O'Rane  disengaged  his  arm  and  rested  his  elbows  on  the 
parapet  and  his  chin  on  his  hands. 

"This  was  three  weeks — before?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  believe  he's  met  her  since.  I  don't  believe  it  was 
him." 

He  shook  his  head  slowly. 

"I  couldn't  see  him,  of  course;  I've  told  you  I  didn't  get 
near  enough  to  touch  him,  but  I  heard  him  going  across  the 
room  and  down  the  stairs  on  one  leg.  You  aren't  in  a  mood 
then  to  weigh  your  suspicions  very  judicially.  ...  I  taxed 
Sonia  with  it.  My  God !  I  can't  go  through  it  again,  we  were 
both  of  us  out  of  our  minds,  I  don't  know  what  we  said! 
But  I  assumed  it  was  Beresford — I  remember  I  kept  on 
using  his  name.  She  never  denied  it.  If  it  wasn't  Beres- 
ford .  .  .  ?" 

"Let's  first  of  all  establish  whether  it  was  Beresford/'  I 
suggested. 

He  hesitated  a  moment  longer  and  then  pulled  himself 
abruptly  erect,  took  my  arm  and  walked  quickly  back  to 
the  house.  Bertrand  and  George,  a  pair  of  strangely  dis- 
reputable figures,  were  dozing  in  arm-chairs ;  Beresford  had 
his  eyes  open  and  fixed  on  us  the  moment  we  were  inside  the 
room. 

"You  wanted  to  know  a  few  minutes  ago  why  I  attacked 
you,"  began  O'Rane.  "I'm  going  to  tell  you,  but  I  should 
like  to  ask  one  question  first.  Are  you  aware  that  my  wife 
is  no  longer  here  ?" 


i8o  SONIA  MARRIED 

"So  Stornaway  told  me — twice/'  Beresford  answered 
wearily. 

"Do  you  know  she's — left  me  ?" 

"I'm  not  surprised.  I'm  only  surprised  she  ever  came 
baok.  I  don't  know  why  she  ever  married  you." 

O'Rane  paused  to  steady  himself. 

"I  believed  until  recently  that  she  had  left  me  for  you," 
he  went  on.  "Now  you  can  understand,  perhaps,  why  I  be- 
haved as  I  did  last  night.  I  can't  offer  any  apology  worth 
having." 

As  he  stopped  speaking,  he  held  out  his  hand  almost 
timidly.  Beresford  stared  at  it  contemptuously  for  a  mo- 
ment ;  then  his  cheeks  flushed,  and  he  took  it. 

"You  can  imagine  I  don't  want  this  to  go  any  further," 
said  O'Rane  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice. 

Beresford  pulled  him  close  to  the  couch. 

"I — I  don't  think  I'm  there  yet,"  he  whispered.  "Say  it 
all  over  again,  will  you  ?  Sonia's  left  you  ?  She  used  to  say 
she  was  going  to,  but  that  was  only  to  tease  you." 

O'Rane's  lips  were  quivering,  and  his  voice  trembled. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  all  grim  earnest,"  he  said. 

"She's  left  you  ?  O'Rane,  she  couldn't !  She  loved  you 
so  much !  I — I  often  thought  you  didn't  treat  her  properly, 
you  were  frightfully  unsympathetic  sometimes,  but  there  was 
nothing  you  could  do  to  force  her  to  this !" 

Bertrand  roused  himself  to  control  the  excitement  of 
Beresford's  voice,  which  was  beginning  to  react  on  O'Rane. 

"Deal  with  realities,  young  man,"  he  grunted.  "The 
facts  are  as  stated." 

Beresford  disregarded  him  and  turned  to  O'Rane. 

"But  where  is  she  ?" 

"We  don't  know." 

"You  don't  know  who  she's  with?"  His  face  became 
suddenly  more  hopeful.  "You've  no  proof  that  she's  with 
anyone?  She  went  away  once  before,  remember." 

A  smothered  sigh  broke  from  O'Rane. 

"I  think  I  may  say  positively  that  she's  with  someone. 


THE  DOOR  CLOSED  181 

She's  not  merely  staying  with  friends.  I'm  afraid  I 
thought  it  was  you  and  I  must  beg  you  to  forgive  me." 

He  tried  to  smile  and  again  held  out  his  hand. 

"You  needn't  have  thought  it  was  me,  O'Rane,"  said 
Beresford  quietly. 

"No.  But  I  only  heard  a  lame  man  hopping  away  on 
one  leg.  And  I  was  seeing  red." 

"But  you  could  both  of  you  trust  me!  If  there'd  been 
a  moment's  danger,  I'd  never  have  seen  Sonia  again.  I'm 
not  the  only  lame  man  in  London.  You  might  have  picked 
on  Grayle  before  me,  if  she  hadn't  hated  him  so  much." 

O'Rane  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand. 

"I  though  of  you  both,"  he  said.  "When  I  heard  the 
man  going  short  on  one  leg,  I  felt  certain  that  it  must  be 
one  of  you.  .  .  .  It's  extraordinary  how  quickly  you  think 
at  a  time  like  that.  I  remember  wondering  whether  I 
should  be  equal  to  tackling  Grayle,  if  it  were  him.  .  .  . 
Then  I  knew  it  couldn't  be,  because  he'd  insulted  Sonia  in 
some  restaurant,  and  they'd  had  a  row.  Besides,  he  was 
in  France  at  the  time.  And  so  I  decided  that  it  must  be 
you.  I'm  sorry.  You  couldn't  expect  me  to  behave  quite 
— dispassionately,  could  you?  I'm  only  glad  it  has  been 
cleared  up.  I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  stay  with  me  again 
till  we've  patched  up  last  night's  damage.  You  can  under- 
stand that  for  Sonia's  sake  this  mustn't  be  talked  about. 
When  people  want  to  know  where  she  is,  I — I  usually  say 
she's  staying  away  and  I — don't — quite  know — when  she's 
coming  back  ..." 


At  the  end  of  August  I  contrived  a  holiday  for  myself 
on  the  north  coast  of  Cornwall,  where  Lady  Pentyre  had 
been  good  enough  to  offer  me  a  house.  Yolande  and  her 
husband  accompanied  me,  and  on  a  passing  impulse  I 
pressed  O'Rane  to  join  us.  We  could  have  given  him 
society  and  some  kind  of  mental  distraction,  but  the  House 
was  still  sitting,  when  I  left  London,  and  he  made  this  an 
excuse  for  declining.  In  his  place  George  came  for  a  week, 


1 82  SONIA  MARRIED 

to  be  followed  by  several  of  Yolande's  colleagues  and 
friends,  whom  she  invited — I  am  fairly  sure — less  for 
themselves  than  for  the  chance  of  giving  an  inexpensive 
holiday  to  some  exceedingly  tired  women. 

It  was  a  fortnight  of  pure  enchantment.  We  rose  at 
eight  and  walked  over  hot,  spongy  turf  to  the  precipitous 
cliff-path  which  led  us  to  our  favourite  bathing-place  in  our 
chosen  bay.  We  bobbed  and  basked  in  a  sea  of  liquid 
sapphire  under  a  blazing  sun  and  only  left  the  water  when 
hunger  drove  us  home.  Through  long,  happy  mornings 
all  four  of  us  scrambled  like  children  over  the  rocks,  in 
and  out  of  unexpected  pools,  slipping  on  treacherous 
bunches  of  sea-weed  and  cutting  our  feet  on  the  cones  of 
a  mollusc's  shell.  We  were  always  so  wet  and  unpresent- 
able by  luncheon-time  that  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
bathe  again  and  put  on  dry  clothes,  which  made  us  late 
and  ravenous,  so  that  we  gorged  ourselves  on  dishes  which 
were  becoming  unprocurable  in  London  and  then  lay  sleep- 
ing repletely  or  glancing  at  the  papers  until  it  was  time  for 
another  walk  among  the  gorse  and  heather,  a  last  descent 
to  the  foreshore  where  the  Atlantic  lay  drowsy  under  the 
setting  sun,  creaming  and  lapping  the  black  and  dun  rocks. 

The  papers,  when  we  mustered  energy  to  read  them, 
brought  us  better  news  each  day.  Pressing  north  and  west, 
the  Italian  and  Russian  armies  were  taking  their  revenge 
for  the  damaging  thrust  which  each  had  lately  sustained, 
and  Austria-Hungary,  squeezed  simultaneously  on  two 
sides,  had  to  adopt  the  unwelcome  and  desperate  expedient 
of  handing  over  the  eastern  troops  to  German  command. 
The  precarious  hold  on  Salonica  was  strengthened  by  the 
safe  landing  of  reinforcements,  and,  before  we  left  in 
September,  Roumania  had  thrown  in  her  lot  with  the 
Allies. 

Even  in  London,  where  for  two  years  the  soldiers  on 
leave  from  any  front  had  found  individual  self -depression 
and  national  self -depreciation  flourishing  most  luxuriantly, 
became  infected  with  brief  optimism.  In  September  a  re- 
port from  General  Headquarters  announced  that  an  in- 


THE  DOOR  CLOSED  183 

fantry  advance  had  been  assisted  by  a  mysterious  new 
mechanism  that  rolled  its  uncouth  way  imperviously 
through  the  rain  of  bullets  and  shrapnel  which  poured  on 
to  its  armoured  sides,  some  land  battleship  which  dropped 
unconcernedly  into  craters  and  climbed  as  unconcernedly 
over  fortifications  and  chance  debris  of  houses,  an  inven- 
tion— the  first  of  British  initiative  in  the  war — that  bestrode 
enemy  trenches  and  spattered  a  hail  of  death  on  either 
hand,  a  good-humoured  steel  giant  that  convulsed  the  troops 
until  they  held  their  sides  and  forgot  to  advance,  a  some- 
thing, in  fine,  that  the  English  soldier  with  his  genius  for 
happy  and  meaningless  nicknames  decided  to  call  a  "tank." 

Old  Bertrand,  who  had  a  pretentious  theory  to  explain 
each  new  set  of  facts,  enunciated  a  new  art  of  war  with 
the  text  "Machines  versus  Men ;"  the  rifle-man  to  the  savage 
with  a  spear  in  his  hand  was  as  the  machine-gun  to  the 
rifle-man — or  the  tank  to  the  machine-gun.  War  had  been 
revolutionised,  and  our  old  calculations  of  effectives  and 
losses  must  go  by  the  board. 

The  mood  of  optimism  passed  as  quickly  as  it  had  come. 
Hardly  had  we  finished  triumphing  over  German  machine- 
guns  with  our  tanks,  overcoming  the  Zeppelin  menace  with 
our  anti-aircraft  guns — there  was  smart  sport  in  October, 
amounting  almost  to  a  battue, — when  the  autumn  campaign 
ended  and  we  settled  down  to  count  the  cost  and  prepare 
for  a  third  winter.  The  figures  of  our  losses  made  the 
Somme  a  Pyrrhic  victory,  and  there  was  troubled  wonder 
where  the  new  drafts  were  to  be  found.  Ireland,  which 
had  been  left  in  suspect  and  timid  neglect — like  a  dog 
which  has  snapped  once  and  may  snap  again,  but  is  quiet 
for  the  moment — became  once  more  a  public  interest  as  a 
candidate  for  conscription.  And  ships  were  mysteriously 
scarce.  And  food  prices  were  exorbitant.  And  the  Gov- 
ernment was  tired,  lethargic,  void  of  initiative.  .  .  . 

"Thank  God!  my  duty  as  a  citizen  is  done  when  I've 
paid  my  taxes !"  Bertrand  Oakleigh  exclaimed  one  night  at 
the  House.  'Tm  glad  I'm  not  a  fanner,  I'm  glad  I'm  not 
mixed  up  with  industry.  I  should  be  unpatriotic  if  I  didn't 


1 84  SONIA  MARRIED 

double  my  output  of  foodstuffs  and  unpatriotic  if  I  kept 
one  potential  piece  of  cannon-fodder  to  grow  'em;  I'm  a 
pro-German  if  I  manufacture  for  export  to  keep  up  the 
foreign  exchanges — Victory  versus  Trade! — and  Lord 
knows  what  I  am  if  I  don't  cheerfully  pay  taxes  on  a  busi- 
ness I've  had  to  close  down.  If  I  lose  money,  nobody  sym- 
pathises ;  if  I  make  any,  I'm  called  a  profiteer,  and  someone 
takes  it  away  from  me.  .  .  .  Curious  how  a  phrase  or  an 
abusive  nickname  dispenses  the  people  of  this  country  from 
using  such  wits  as  a  niggardly  Providence  has  given  them ! 
You've  only  to  whisper  something  about  a  'hidden  hand/ 
and  a  crowded  meeting  of  City  men  will  sit  and  hypnotise 
themselves  into  thinking  that  there's  an  active  service  of 
secret  agents — with  poor  Haldane  as  Director  General — 
quietly  penetrating  our  social  life  and  paralysing  our  efforts 
in  the  war.  Hidden  hand !  Pacifist — they  can't  even  throw 
their  absurdities  into  decent  English !  Profiteer !  We're  so 
astonishingly  petty  as  a  nation!  I  wonder  if  the  same 
thing's  being  reproduced  in  all  other  countries — the  old 
'Nous  sommes  trahis'  nonsense.  .  .  .  They're  all  govern- 
ments of  old  men,  too, — and  they're  tired — and  no  one  out- 
side knows  what  they've  had  to  go  through — and  every- 
body's nerves  are  snapping.  I'm  sometimes  surprised  that 
these  fellows  have  lasted  so  long,  but  I  think  their  days  are 
numbered.  If  you  throw  your  mind  back,  you'll  remember 
a  phase  when  Asquith's  worst  political  enemies  said  he 
was  indispensable,  the  only  Prime  Minister,  the  one  man 
who  could  hold  the  Government  and  the  country  together. 
You  don't  hear  that  now ;  we've  outgrown  that  phase.  Now 
people  are  openly  saying  that  he's  not  master  in  his  own 
house,  that  we  shall  never  win  the  war  so  long  as  he's  in 
the  saddle,  that  they'll  turn  him  out  the  moment  they  can 
find  someone  to  put  in  his  place.  .  .  .  Lloyd-George  would 
be  in  power  to-day,  if  his  friends  in  Fleet  Street  could  be 
sure  that  he  wouldn't  hanky-panky  with  the  Army.  .  .  . 
To  read  the  papers,  you'd  think  it  was  the  cumulative  effect 
of  reverses  like  Gallipoli  and  Mesopotamia,  the  shortage 
of  food,  and  the  fact  that  we've  done  nothing  to  increase 


THE  DOOR  CLOSED  185 

our  home  production,  and  our  failure  to  grapple  with  sub- 
marines. It's  deeper  and  blinder  than  that.  .  .  .  It's  be- 
cause the  Government  hasn't  won  the  war  that  it  will  fail ; 
and  any  new  Prime  Minister  will  fall  in  exactly  the  same 
way,  unless  he  can  win  it.  Results !  results !  That  mounte- 
bank Grayle  is  quite  right;  he  represents  average,  unthink- 
ing, third-rate,  violent  opinion,  and  that  opinion's  becoming 
articulate.  As  I've  told  you  before,  I  don't  think  a  change 
will  do  any  good,  because  we  set  ourselves  too  big  a  task, 
we  started  on  too  high  a  moral  plane.  I  suppose  I  should 
be  called  a  'pacifist*  if  I  suggested  that  that  phase  was  over 
and  that  we'd  better  moderate  our  tone  before  we're  com- 
pelled to." 

The  particular  non-party  War  Committee  headed  by 
Grayle  was  waking  to  activity  after  its  suspended  anima- 
tion during  the  summer  campaign.  In  his  paper,  in  con- 
versation at  the  Club  and  still  more  in  the  Smoking  Room 
of  the  House  he  was  calling  for  more  vigour  in  adminis- 
tration. .  .  .  The  House  of  Commons  position  was  curious, 
he  informed  me;  if  he  could  be  sure  of  a  certain  number 
of  votes — he  would  not  trouble  me  with  the  figures, — we 
could  have  a  ministry  after  our  own  heart.  There  followed 
an  interval  of  perhaps  five  minutes,  in  which  I  allowed  him 
to  do  all  the  talking.  The  Unionist  members  of  the  Coali- 
tion were  sick  and  tired  of  this  eternal  "Wait  and  See;" 
there  would  be  a  secession  the  moment  that  a  better  al- 
ternative government  had  been  sketched  out ;  you  had  only 
to  call  a  Unionist  party  meeting  and  put  it  to  'em  straight. 
But  you  didn't  want  to  take  an  unnecessary  toss,  you 
couldn't  afford  to  supply  powder  and  shot  to  rags  like  the 
"Daily  News,"  which  were  always  talking  about  an  intrigue 
and  saying  that  no  government  could  exist  with  the  Ger- 
mans in  front  and  back-stabbers  behind.  .  .  . 

"Nothing's  settled  yet,"  he  told  me  after  considering 
academically  the  offices  for  which  we  were  both  fitted. 
"But  you  know  the  constitutional  theory;  you're  not  justi- 
fied in  upsetting  a  government  unless  you're  prepared  to 
go  to  Buckingham  Palace  and  take  on  the  job  of  forming 


1 86  SONIA  MARRIED 

a  new  administration.  Excuse  me !  I  want  to  have  a  word 
with  Oakleigh." 

The  following  day  I  asked  Bertrand  under  what  guise 
the  devil  had  appeared  to  him,  but  he  had  evidently  been 
less  patient. 

"Grayle  went  away  with  a  flea  in  his  ear,"  he  grunted. 
"He's  been  worrying  me  so  long  that  I  had  to  stop  it  once 
and  for  all.  God  knows,  I  don't  care  about  this  ministry; 
I  shouldn't  have  much  faith  in  any  ministry  formed  out  of 
the  present  House — the  best  talent's  already  on  the  Treas- 
ury Bench — and  I  don't  believe  in  bringing  in  your  super- 
man from  outside — the  House  of  Commons  can't  be 
learned  in  a  night,  and  even  a  government  department  needs 
study.  What  I  object  to  in  Grayle  is  his  picking  on  me  as 
one  of  his  fifty  or  sixty  new  allies;  you  can  picture  him 
buzzing  round  with  his  fellow-conspirators — 'Shall  we  try 
Oakleigh  and  Stornaway?  They're  solid,  moderate,  old 
members — highly  respected.  They  don't  add  anything  to 
the  common  stock,  of  course,  but  they  carry  more  weight 
than  the  men  who  are  always  talking  and  playing  an  active 
part.  We  might  try  them,  their  names  would  look  well  on 
the  prospectus — inspire  confidence,  you  know/ "  He 
chuckled  maliciously.  "I  suppose  I'm  getting  very  old,  but 
I  can't  stand  young  men's  conceit  in  the  way  I  once  did. 
Grayle's  like  a  boy  just  down  from  Oxford,  doing  every- 
thing for  the  first  time  and  imagining  that  no  one's  ever 
done  it  before.  Does  he  really  think  this  is  the  first  politi- 
cal intrigue  in  history?  I  recommended  him  a  course  of 
Disraeli's  novels — to  improve  his  technique.  Good  God!  I 
was  playing  this  game  of  detaching  wobblers  and  handing 
out  offices  that  were  not  in  my  gift  and  mobilising  the 
solid,  moderate,  highly  respected  old  members  under  Glad- 
stone! I  toiled  and  schemed  to  keep  the  Liberal  Party  out 
of  Rosebery's  hands;  I  was  making  new  parties  and 
pigeon-holing  possible  cabinets  all  through  the  Morley-Har- 
court  days,  I  was  intriguing  to  keep  C.-B.  in  command 
when  the  Liberal  Leaguers  intrigued  to  kick  him  into  the 


THE  DOOR  CLOSED  187 

Lords.  I've  been  through  it  all ;  and  be  hanged  if  I  didn't 
do  it  better  than  Grayle !" 

Perhaps  my  manner  was  too  sympathetic.  Certainly  I 
was  not  to  escape  so  easily  as  Bertrand  had  done,  for 
Grayle  met  me  leaving  the  House  and  offered  to  drop  me 
on  his  way  home.  I  accepted  because  I  was  nominally 
amicable  with  him,  because  I  did  not  want  a  wet  walk  to 
my  hotel  and  because  I  could  not  decently  refuse.  He  talked 
persuasively  the  whole  way  home  and  was  obviously 
chagrined  when  I  did  not  invite  him  into  my  rooms.  He 
rang  me  up  at  breakfast  next  day  and  tried  to  secure  my 
presence  at  luncheon;  once  at  my  office  in  St.  James* 
Street,  once  in  my  department,  and  once  again,  when  I  was 
tranquilly  dining  with  the  Maitlands,  I  was  called  to  the 
telephone  with  an  apologetic  but  urgent  request  that  I 
would  arrange  a  time  when  Grayle  could  have  five  minutes' 
conversation  with  me. 

My  position  was  simple  and  clear.  I  would  be  neither 
bribed  nor  bullied  into  any  kind  of  office,  I  would  give  no 
blank  cheque  for  the  future  to  Grayle  or  anyone  else,  but 
I  should  no  doubt  be  found  voting  with  him  against  the 
Government — or  with  the  Government  against  him — as  I 
had  done  in  the  past,  judging  every  division  on  its  merits. 
A  note  on  my  dressing-table  informed  me  that  Colonel 
Grayle  had  telephoned  from  the  House  at  eleven.  ...  I 
picked  up  my  hat,  buttoned  my  coat  again  and  turned  my 
steps  towards  Milford  Square;  a  far  more  patient  man 
might  be  excused  for  thinking  that  Grayle  was  making  a 
nuisance  of  himself. 

The  servant  who  opened  the  door  informed  me  that 
Colonel  Grayle  was  out. 

'Til  wait,"  I  said.    "I've  got  to  see  him." 

"But  he's  out  of  town,  sir.  He  didn't  say  where  he  was 
going  or  when  he'd  be  back.  He  very  often  goes  away  like 
that." 

The  man  was  sleek  of  appearance  and  glib  of  speech, 
well-experienced,  I  thought,  in  shutting  the  door  to  people 
whom  his  master  did  not  wish  to  see.  But  I  did  not  fall 


1 88  SONIA  MARRIED 

within  that  category,  and  Grayle  had  plagued  me  suffi- 
ciently to  justify  reprisals. 

"When  did  he  go  away?"  I  asked. 

"Before  dinner,  sir." 

"Ah,  then  he  must  have  changed  his  plans/'  I  said.  "He 
telephoned  to  me  from  the  House  half  an  hour  ago;  he's 
been  trying  to  get  hold  of  me  all  day,  but  this  is  the  first 
opportunity  I've  had.  Is  Mr.  Bannerman  in?  If  so,  I'll 
talk  to  him  till  Colonel  Grayle  comes  in." 

"Mr.  Bannerman  has  moved  into  rooms  of  his  own,"  the 
servant  told  me,  yielding  ground  reluctantly. 

I  walked  into  Grayle's  smoking-room  and  left  the  man 
to  warn  him  that  I  was  in  effective  occupation  and  that  he 
must  yield  to  the  inevitable  and  come  down  to  see  me,  if  he 
were  already  at  home,  or  submit  to  a  few  minutes  of  my 
company  when  he  returned.  A  moment  later  I  saw  that 
he  could  not  yet  have  come  back  from  the  House,  as  a 
pile  of  letters  awaited  him  on  the  table  and  the  whiskey 
and  soda  set  out  for  his  refreshment  were  untouched.  "A 
model  servant,"  I  said  to  myself,  "to  have  everything  ready 
when  you  do  not  expect  your  master  home."  I  mixed  my- 
self a  drink  and  was  preparing  to  light  a  cigar  when  I 
found  that  I  was  without  matches.  On  going  into  the  hall, 
I  found  my  sleek,  glib  friend  mounting  guard,  as  though 
he  expected  me  to  slip  out  with  my  pockets  full  of  silver. 

He  produced  a  box  of  matches  and  struck  one  for  me. 
As  I  began  to  light  my  cigar,  a  taxi  drove  into  the  square 
and  drew  up  opposite  the  house. 

"What  name  shall  I  tell  Colonel  Grayle  ?"  asked  the  ser- 
vant, as  he  held  open  the  smoking-room  door  for  me. 

Before  I  had  time  to  answer,  I  heard  a  latch-key  grating 
in  the  lock ;  the  servant  moved  forward  and  stopped  irreso- 
lutely; then  the  door  opened  to  admit  Mrs.  O'Rane.  Our 
eyes  met  for  a  moment,  and  for  the  first  time  since  I  had 
known  her  I  saw  her  out  of  countenance.  In  another  mo- 
ment it  was  all  over,  for  I  had  backed  into  the  smoking 
room  and  pushed  the  door  closed.  I  heard  her  clear,  rather 
high  voice  asking  whether  Colonel  Grayle  was  home  yet. 


THE  DOOR  CLOSED  189 

The  servant  murmured  something  in  reply,  and  I  caught 
the  sound  of  his  footsteps  growing  fainter  along  the  flagged 
passage.  Mrs.  O'Rane  turned  the  handle  and  came  in  to 
me,  once  more  self-possessed  and  in  control  of  herself; 
there  was  neither  embarrassment  nor  defiance  in  her  man- 
ner; she  greeted  me  as  she  had  once  before  greeted  me, 
when  I  first  met  her  at  "The  Sanctuary." 

"I  hope  you've  not  been  waiting  long,"  she  said.  "Vin- 
cent's usually  home  by  this  time.  There's  not  an  all-night 
sitting  or  anything,  is  there?" 

"Not  so  far  as  I  know,"  I  answered.  "Mrs.  O'Rane,  I 
don't  think  I'll  stay  any  longer." 

She  looked  at  my  newly  lighted  cigar  and  untouched 
whiskey  and  soda. 

"It's  just  as  you  like,"  she  said.  "It  seems  a  pity  to 
run  away  without  seeing  him,  though.  I  presume  you  came 
to  see  him  and  not  me?" 

"I  came  to  see  him.    I  didn't  know  you  were  here." 

"But  I've  been  here  the  whole  time.  Didn't  you  know 
that?" 

"We  didn't." 

"But  where  else  was  I  likely  to  be?" 

"Your  husband  never  suspected  that  Grayle  had  any  hand 
in  it.  I  fancy  you  and  Grayle  did  your  best  not  to  en- 
lighten him.  You  let  him  think  it  was  another  man,  and 
Grayle  gave  an  alibi.  I  suppose  it  was  all  right;  I'm  not 
versed  in  the  ethics  of  the  thing." 

I  made  a  step  towards  the  door,  but  Mrs.  O'Rane  was 
in  my  way. 

"Yes,  I  don't  know  why  Vincent  said  that,"  she  ob- 
served reflectively.  "Unless  he  thought  that  nobody  was 
ever  going  to  know.  .  .  .  But  I'm  not  quite  so  abandoned 
as  that.  I  warned  you  all,  I  told  you  my  old  married  life 
was  over;  and  I  was  free  to  start  another.  As  for  not 
enlightening  anybody,  it's  not  my  business  to  correct  all 
the  mistakes  people  choose  to  make.  .  .  .  Now  that  you've 
been  here,  you  can  report  everything  you've  seen.  I'nt 
not  hiding  anything,  and  you  can  say  I'm  not  ashamed  of 


1 9o  SONIA  MARRIED 

what  I've  done  and  I'm  quite  prepared  for  all  the  world  to 
know.  He  can  divorce  me  as  soon  as  he  likes." 

The  discussion  did  not  make  me  want  to  stay  any  longer 
in  the  house,  and  I  had  to  ask  her  to  let  me  pass. 

"You  can  tell  him  that,"  she  added  carelessly. 

"I  don't  know  that  he  contemplates  divorcing  you/'  I 
said.  "He's  never  mentioned  the  subject." 

"But  he'll  have  to.  He  can't  go  on  being  nominally  mar- 
ried to  me,  when  I'm — well  ..." 

"Are  you  sure  you  don't  mean  that  your  own  position 
will  be  a  shade  less  discreditable  when  Grayle  marries 
you?"  I  asked.  "Frankly,  you  haven't  been  thinking  of 
your  husband  very  much,  have  you?" 

She  sighed  impatiently. 

"You  will  keep  on  speaking  of  him  as  my  husband." 

"He  is." 

"Until  he  divorces  me." 

"Unless  he  divorces  you,"  I  substituted. 


CHAPTER  FIVE 

THE   LIMITS   OF  LOYALTY 


"O  knights  and  lords,  it  seems  but  little  skill 
To  talk  of  well-known  things  past  now  and  dead. 

God  wot  I  ought  to  say,  I  have  done  ill, 

And  pray  you  all  forgiveness  heartily! 

Because  you  must  be  right,  such  great  lords;  still 

Listen,  suppose  your  time  were  come  to  die, 
And  you  were  quite  alone  and  very  weak; 
Yea,  laid  a  dying  while  very  mightily 

The  wind  was  ruffling  up  the  narrow  streak 

Of  river  through  your  broad  lands  running  well; 

Suppose  a  hush  should  come,  then  some  one  speak; 

'One  of  these  cloths  is  heaven,  and  one  is  hell, 
Now  choose  one  cloth  for  ever;  which  they  be, 
I  will  not  tell  you,  you  must  somehow  tell 

Of  your  own  strength  and  mightiness;  here,  see!' 


After  a  shivering  half-hour  you  said; 

'God  help!  heaven's  colour,  the  blue';  and  he  said,  'hell.' 

Perhaps  you  would  roll  upon  your  bed, 

And  cry  to  all  good  men  that  loved  you  well, 

'Ah,  Christ!  if  only  I  had  known,  known,  known  .  .  .'" 

WILLIAM  MORRIS:    The  Defence  of  Guenevere. 


When  I  first  met  Sir  Aylmer  Lancing,  I  was  a  very  young 
and  very  impecunious  member  of  the  Diplomatic  Service; 
he  was  in  early  middle  life  and  a  millionaire  many  times 
over.  It  was  a  time  of  mental  green-sickness  with  me, 
when  I  had  an  undergraduate's  morbid  craving  for  ideas, 

191 


192  SONIA  MARRIED 

something  of  an  undergraduate's  contempt,  too,  for  those 
to  whom  ideas  made  no  appeal.  In  describing  Sir  Aylmer 
as  a  man  without  ideas,  I  am  saying  something  which  he 
would  have  endorsed  and  interpreted  to  mean  far  more 
than  I  intended.  He  had  no  ideas  outside  his  business, 
though  within  it  he  shewed  a  deliberate,  dogged  objectivity, 
the  sublimation  of  commonsense,  which  was  staggering  and 
irresistible  as  a  battering-ram.  I  have  met  no  one  with 
whom  the  essential  was  so  invariably  the  obvious.  One 
day,  when  we  were  crossing  together  to  America,  I  asked 
him  what  were  the  qualities  which  made  most  for  success 
in  any  career.  He  answered,  for  all  the  world  like  the 
tritest  of  stage  millionaires,  "Always  know  what  you  want 
and  go  for  it;  always  be  quite  clear  about  what's  going  on 
in  your  own  mind." 

Lancing  left  an  estate  of  over  twenty  millions;  I  had 
made  before  the  war  about  two  hundred  thousand  pounds ; 
despite  the  difference  I  boldly  affirm  that  the  first  in- 
tellectual quality  for  success  is  an  ability  to  know  what  is 
going  on  in  other  people's  minds.  Bertrand  Oakleigh  has 
the  quality  in  a  high  degree.  I  made  fun  of  him,  indeed, 
over  many  years,  because  he  was  so  oracular.  At  his  house 
in  Princes  Gardens,  in  the  Smoking-Room  and  at  the  Club 
he  would  sit  looking  up  at  the  ceiling  with  a  long  black 
cigar  jutting  defiantly  from  under  his  heavy  walrus  mous- 
tache, always  a  little  more  profound  and  unhurried  than 
the  rest  of  us,  always  armed  with  a  general  principle,  al- 
ways ready  with  a  philosophic  theory,  sometimes  para- 
doxical and  usually  pretentious.  But,  when  he  dropped 
what  George  once  called  his  "sneers  and  graces,"  forgot 
to  be  prejudiced  or  pontifical,  he  was  shrewdly  intelli- 
gent. Had  he  been  less  indolent,  less  fond  of  gossip,  less 
detached  and  content  to  be  the  amused  spectator,  he  could 
have  made  a  considerable  political  position  for  himself,  for 
he  had  a  rare  faculty  of  hearing  innumerable  opinions  on 
the  same  subject,  melting  them  down,  so  to  say,  and  pro- 
ducing a  prophecy.  But,  as  he  grew  older,  he  would  not 


THE  LIMITS  OF  LOYALTY  193 

take  the  trouble  to  think  for  himself  or  to  ascertain  what 
others  were  thinking. 

I  went  to  him  for  advice  on  the  results  of  my  visit  to 
Grayle's  house  in  Milford  Square. 

"Well,  I  take  it  that  the  one  person  we're  interested 
in  is  David,"  he  said  by  way  of  giving  me  a  lead. 

The  remark  was  characteristic  of  his  love  for  O'Rane, 
but  I  am  afraid  it  was  also  indicative  of  his  general  aver- 
sion from  women  and  of  his  dislike  for  Mrs.  O'Rane  in 
particular,  a  dislike  which  dated  back  to  a  time  long 
anterior  to  her  marriage.  I  was  weakly  ready  to  go 
farther  and  interest  myself  in  her,  too,  if  only  on  account 
of  her  youth  and  an  obstinate  belief  that  youth  has  a 
good  title  to  happiness. 

"Well,  we're  looking  for  the  best  solution,"  I  suggested, 
"not  meting  out  justice.  Grayle  and  Mrs.  O'Rane  are 
waiting  for  O'Rane  to  file  a  petition.  That  was  her  mes- 
sage. Now,  O'Rane's  never  said  whether  he'll  divorce  her 
or  not;  probably  he  hasn't  made  up  his  mind,  and  cer- 
tainly I  don't  know  his  views  on  divorce.  She's  in  an  im- 
possible position — socially — as  long  as  she  lives  with 
Grayle  without  marrying  him;  and  Grayle's  position  will 
be  very  uncomfortable  as  soon  as  the  story  gets  about. 
It's  enough  to  spoil  his  political  career;  whereas  he'll  live 
it  down,  if  there's  a  conventional  divorce  and  he  lies  quiet 
for  a  few  months.  If  O'Rane  wants  to  take  his  revenge, 
he  need  only  refuse  to  set  her  free." 

"He's  not  looking  for  revenge,"  said  Bertrand  oracu- 
larly. 

"Then  you'd  say — anyone  would  say — that  the  kindest 
and  most  generous  thing  he  could  do  would  be  to  divorce 
her.  I'm  only  uncertain  because  I  know  something  of 
Grayle;  I  presume  he'll  marry  her,  but,  when  the  honey- 
moon period's  over,  he'll  make  her  supremely  unhappy. 
Perhaps  that's  no  more  than  she  deserves,  but,  if  O'Rane 
thought  she'd  be  unhappy  by  marrying  Grayle,  conceivably 
he  might  exercise  his  power  to  prevent  it." 

"Conceivably  he  might,"  Bertrand  assented  dryly. 


194  SONIA  MARRIED 

"Well,  those  are  the  alternatives — to  divorce  or  not  to 
divorce.  I'm  amazed  to  find  how  well  the  secret's  been 
kept,  but  it  can't  be  kept  indefinitely.  It  happened  to  be 
me  last  night,  but  Tom,  Dick  or  Harry  might  just  as  well 
have  made  the  discovery.  Any  day  now  you  may  have  a 
nauseating  scandal.  We  none  of  us  want  that,  and  O'Rane 
does  nothing  to  stop  it." 

For  a  moment  Bertrand  dropped  his  omniscient  manner 
and  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  slow  helplessness. 

"What  do  you  suggest  he  can  do  ?"  he  asked. 

"Have  the  minor  scandal  of  a  divorce — I  regard  that  as 
less  bad  than  the  common  knowledge  that  she's  been  living 
for  weeks,  months,  years  with  a  man  who's  not  her  hus- 
band,— get  it  over  quickly  and  give  people  a  chance  of  for- 
getting it.  If  he  won't  do  that,  let  him  see  if  he's  got  any 
power  to  keep  them  from  living  together.  I  don't  think 
he  has.  Grayle  has  sufficient  money,  his  position's  not  big 
enough  to  make  him  susceptible  to  blackmail " 

"You  may  take  it  that  David's  got  no  power,"  Bertrand 
interrupted. 

"Well,  it's  your  turn,"  I  said  a  little  impatiently. 

Bertrand  stroked  his  moustache  and  closed  his  eyes 
sleepily. 

"I'll  answer  your  specific  question.  You  know  who  she's 
living  with  and  you  can  tell  David  or  not,  as — you — like. 
It  won't  make  a  pennyworth  of  difference,"  he  added  cheer- 
fully. "You  see,  there's  one  thing  you're  leaving  out, 
Stornaway,  the  only  thing  that  matters.  David  wants  her 
back.  I  could  see  that  on  the  day  itself,  when  he'd  caught 
them,  when  she  decamped.  .  .  .  Nothing  on  earth  will 
make  him  divorce  her — for  purely  selfish  reasons,  if  you 
like ;  he  can't  and  won't  let  her  go.  But  I  don't  know  that 
you'll  do  much  good  by  putting  a  pistol  of  that  kind  at  her 
head.  I've  known  that  young  woman  on  and  off  for  about 
ten  years.  I  don't  see  her  knocking  at  the  door  and  say- 
ing, 'Oh,  by  the  way,  as  I  can't  live  with  the  man  I  want 
to,  I've  come  back.'  Your  general  question  what  to  do  I 
can't  answer.  At  least,  we  can  only  go  on  waiting " 


THE  LIMITS  OF  LOYALTY  195 

"And  praying  that  other  people  won't  find  out?"  I  asked. 

"They  will,  I'm  afraid.  Well,  Sonia's  utterly  reckless, 
I  gather;  she  doesn't  care  who  knows.  Grayle  wouldn't 
have  cared  in  the  old  days.  When  he  was  living  with  her 
predecessor — you  know,  the  wife  of  the  man  in  the 
Brazilian  Legation; — Grayle's  so  untidy  in  his  amours; 
they  always  overlap — it  was  common  property,  they  went 
almost  everywhere  together,  she  took  the  head  of  his  table. 
Since  those  happy,  careless  times  Grayle  has  discovered 
political  ambitions.  From  the  fact  that  not  more  than  a 
handful  of  people  know,  I  judge  that  Grayle  wants  to  keep 
the  thing  quiet;  I'm  prepared  to  bet  that  Grayle  would  like 
best  of  all  to  be  free  of  the  whole  tangle  and,  if  he  can't 
do  that,  he'd  like  the  divorce  to  come  on  as  quickly  as 
possible.  There's  another  thing  you've  left  out.  Do  you 
suppose  Grayle  had  contemplated  a  scandal,  a  divorce,  the 
necessity  of  marrying  the  woman?" 

"I  don't  suppose  anyone  in  his  position  sits  down  and 
thinks  it  out  in  cold  blood,"  I  said. 

Bertrand  opened  his  left  eye  and  looked  at  me  with  a 
malicious  smile;  then  closed  it  and  opened  the  right. 

"Some  do,  some  don't,"  he  answered.  "That's  been  my 
experience.  I  don't  much  mind  your  healthy  incontinent 
animal,  but  I  hate  your  continent  calculating  man — the 
creature  who  regulates  his  passions  by  his  fears.  He's 
artificial,  to  start  with,  and  he's  dangerous.  Now,  I  sit 
here  like  the  sailor's  parrot.  Grayle  is  becoming  the  calcu- 
lating animal,  Grayle  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  feels  that 
he  has  a  reputation  to  lose,  Grayle  is  combining  disreputable 
tastes  with  a  decorous  exterior." 

Bertrand  paused  to  chuckle  cynically. 

"Well?"  I  said. 

"Well?  Everybody  seems  to  leave  out  one  thing  in  his 
calculations,  and  Grayle  was  no  exception.  I  put  it  to 
you  a  moment  ago  that  he  never  contemplated  the  position 
he's  in  now;  I  suggest  that  Grayle  saw  a  very  beautiful 
young  woman  and  decided,  as  you'd  expect  of  him,  that 
she  was  fair  prey.  He  studied  her  carefully.  She  wasn't 


196  SONIA  MARRIED 

to  be  bought,  because  throughout  her  life  she's  been  re- 
ceiving everything  and  giving  nothing  in  return ;  she  wasn't 
to  be  drugged,  because  her  head's  strong  and  her  nature's 
cold ;  she  wasn't  to  be  cajoled — Beresford  was  doing  the 
chivalrous  devotion  business,  and  she  treated  him  like  a 
tame  cat,  which  is  what  he  was; — Grayle  discovered  that 
the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  bully  her.  He  went  away,  neg- 
lected her,  snubbed  her  when  they  met — enough  to  mortify 
her  without  even  suggesting  he  cared  enough  to  try  and 
hurt  her, — shewed  her  quite  plainly  that  he  could  get  on 
without  her.  Down  she  came  with  a  run  and  began  to 
make  advances  to  him.  He  was  too  busy  to  waste  time  on 
her.  She  was  piqued,  she  began  to  throw  herself  at  him 
until  at  last  he  got  her  into  his  power.  ...  I  don't  know 
who  made  her  think  she'd  any  cause  to  be  jealous  of  Miss 
Merryon;  it  may  have  been  Grayle,  she  may  have  evolved 
it  for  herself  to  excuse  her  leaving  her  husband;  certainly 
she  lashed  herself  into  thinking  it  was  all  true,  and  that 
was  Grayle's  opportunity.  But,  once  more,  he  never  thought 
of  anything  more  than  a  passing  intrigue,  which  would  have 
been  easy  enough  with  the  husband  away  three  months  at 
a  time.  Unfortunately  the  husband  turned  up  unexpected- 
ly just  as  the  intrigue  began,  and  that  lifted  everything  on 
to  a  much  higher  plane.  Grayle  cut  and  ran  like  a  boy 
caught  robbing  an  orchard — to  be  followed  a  couple  of 
hours  later  by  the  woman."  Once  off  the  subject  of  O'Rane, 
Bertrand  was  enjoying  himself  prodigiously.  "I  would 
have  given  something  to  see  his  face  when  she  arrived. 
Now,  in  my  experience,  there  are  mighty  few  crimes  and 
cruelties  that  the  female  won't  commit  to  protect  the  male 
— the  male  she's  interested  in; — she'll  lie  and  thieve — and 
we've  probably  both  of  us  seen  her  fixing  the  blame  on 
the  wrong  man,  letting  him  be  cited  as  co-respondent  to 
save  her  lover.  Well,  Beresford  was  sacrificed  to  protect 
Grayle;  Grayle  himself,  who'd  stayed  behind  in  England 
to  carry  out  the  intrigue,  used  the  excuse  of  his  mission  to 
the  Front  to  cover  his  tracks.  For  two  months  and  more 
he's  contrived  to  keep  the  thing  secret.  Do  you  imagine 


THE  LIMITS  OF  LOYALTY  197 

he  isn't  ready — however  much  infatuated  about  her  he  may 
be  or  may  have  been — to  get  rid  of  her  and  start  again  un- 
embarrassed? When  we  talk  about  lifelong  devotion,  we 
none  of  us  expect  to  be  taken  at  our  word." 

Bertrand  opened  his  eyes  to  look  at  me,  and  I  saw  that 
he  was  shaken  with  noiseless  chuckles  of  malice.  I  could 
not  share  in  his  merriment. 

"I  don't  see  how  this  helps,"  I  said.  "She  wants  a 
divorce,  he  wants  to  get  rid  of  her,  and  O'Rane — she  wont 
come  back  to  him,  and,  if  she  did,  I  can't  conceive  of  his 
taking  her  back." 

"Then  you  don't  know  David  and  you've  not  had  much 
experience  of  young  men  in  his  state  of  mind,"  answered 
Bertrand  with  assurance.  "In  the  meantime  you  can  do 
nothing  and  you'd  better  wait  till  the  story  begins  to  get 
round  London.  It  may  be  weeks  or  it  may  be  months,  but 
that  little  scandal  is  not  going  to  lie  hid  for  ever." 

In  spite  of  Bertrand  there  was  one  thing  that  I  could  do, 
and  I  did  it  when  next  I  met  O'Rane.  It  was  intolerable,  to 
my  way  of  thinking,  that  he  should  be  allowed  to  meet 
Grayle  in  ignorance  of  the  blow  which  Grayle  had  dealt 
him.  To  do  the  fellow  justice,  I  had  never  seen  him  seek- 
ing O'Rane's  company  either  before  or  after,  but  I  could 
not  stomach  the  idea  that  O'Rane  might  unsuspectingly 
join  him  at  dinner  or  even  bid  him  good-night.  I  broke 
the  news  on  my  autumn  visit  to  Melton.  As  soon  as  I  ap- 
proached the  subject,  O'Rane's  face  grew  rigid;  when  I 
had  finished,  he  said,  "Oh,  that  was  it?  I  see.  Thank 
you." 

Our  brief  meeting  took  place  in  October,  and  I  do  not 
know  whether  O'Rane  came  more  than  once  to  London 
until  the  Christmas  holidays.  I  did  not  see  him,  certainly, 
and  I  have  never  heard  whether  he  ran  across  Grayle. 
About  a  week  after  our  meeting,  I  happened  to  be  dining 
with  the  Maitlands  and  once  more  found  Grayle  among 
my  fellow-guests.  Until  that  moment  I  had  not  tried  to 
think  what  line  of  conduct  I  should  follow  on  meeting  him; 
I  do  not  yet  know  what  is  the  conventional  course.  When 


198  SONIA  MARRIED 

Lady  Maitland  went  to  the  drawing-room,  however,  and 
he  moved  unconcernedly  into  the  chair  next  mine,  I  had 
no  difficulty  in  arriving  at  a  decision.  Grayle  was  middle- 
aged,  rich,  of  unimpaired  physique;  he  had  tasted  most 
kinds  of  enjoyment,  his  life  had  been  brutishly  happy  and 
brutally  successful;  this  last  intrigue  meant  as  little  to  him 
as  a  kiss  snatched  from  an  unreluctant  dairymaid.  It 
meant  more  to  O'Rane. 

I  waved  away  the  decanter  which  Maurice  Maitland  was 
pressing  upon  me  and  asked  if  he  would  make  my  apologies 
to  his  wife  and  allow  me  to  slip  away  unobserved  to  finish 
some  work  which  I  had  been  compelled  to  take  home.  A 
day  or  two  later  I  entered  the  House  as  Grayle  was  leav- 
ing it.  He  turned  back  and  requested  the  favour  of  three 
minutes'  conversation  with  me. 

"I  just  want  to  understand,"  he  began  with  an  outward 
show  of  reason  and  an  underlying  menace.  "I  knew  you 
knew,  of  course,  but  I  didn't  suspect  you  of  so  much  melo- 
drama. Am  I  to  take  it  that  you  don't  want  to  meet  me  ?" 

I  am  afraid  that  the  threatening  high  voice  left  me  un- 
daunted. 

"Grayle,"  I  said,  "you  must  admit  youVe  been  a  pitiful, 
heartless  cad  over  this." 

"You  don't  want  to  meet  me?"  he  repeated.  "I  only 
want  to  be  sure  of  my  ground." 

"You  remembered,  of  course,  that  O'Rane  was  blind?" 
I  went  on. 

He  dropped  the  menace  and  assumed  an  expression  of 
mild  perplexity. 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  follow  where  you  come  in  in  all  this," 
he  said,  running  his  fingers  through  his  luxuriant  flaxen 
hair.  "I'm  quite  ready  to  meet  O'Rane  here  or — else- 
where. If  he  likes  to  plead  blindness  as  an  excuse,  he 
can." 

"And  you  will  only  plead  it  as  an  opportunity,"  I  said. 
"Frankly,  Grayle,  I  never  want  to  see  you  or  hear  of  you 
or  speak  to  you  again.  And  I  wish  I  could  find  someone 
less  fat  and  flabby  to  horsewhip  you." 


THE  LIMITS  OF  LOYALTY  199 

So  a  forty  years'  acquaintance  ended.  We  spoke  as  and 
when  we  found  ourselves  members  of  the  same  company, 
but  I  was  only  to  meet  him  once  again  in  private  and  only 
to  hold  private  communication  with  him  twice.  Perhaps 
I  was  too  busy  to  frequent  the  places  where  I  was  likely  to 
see  him ;  perhaps,  and  more  probably,  he  was  living  in  com- 
parative retirement. 

During  October  and  November  I  was  constrained  to 
watch  the  fulfilment  of  Bertrand's  prophecy.  The  fact  that 
Mrs.  O'Rane  was  living  apart  from  her  husband,  if  not  the 
fact  that  she  was  living  with  someone  else,  could  not  be 
concealed  indefinitely.  I  had  entered  their  social  group 
so  recently  that  I  could  not  count  more  than  half  a  dozen 
or  a  dozen  friends  in  common,  but  in  the  course  of  those 
two  months  I  heard  many  references  that  indicated  sus- 
picion or  at  least  curiosity.  Lady  Maitland,  I  remember, 
shook  her  massive  head  and  told  me  that  it  was  a  great 
pity  for  Colonel  Grayle  and  Mrs.  O'Rane  to  be  still  going 
about  together  so  much;  she  had  hoped  that  all  that  non- 
sense was  over.  .  .  .  Lady  Pentyre  had  heard  that  there 
was  some  estrangement  .  .  .  And  one  night,  when  I  was 
dining  at  Bodmin  Lodge,  young  Deganway,  who  prided 
himself  on  the  range  of  his  social  information,  peered 
knowingly  through  his  eyeglass  and  asked  our  host 
whether  the  famous  Mrs.  O'Rane  did  not  hail  from  his  part 
of  the  country.  I  forget  what  answer  Pebbleridge  made, 
but  Deganway  started  talking  with  fine  mystery  about  a 
certain  member  of  Parliament  who  should  be  nameless. 
.  .  .  George  Oakleigh  interrupted  him  by  asking  if  he  knew 
her. 

"I  do"  he  added  significantly. 

"Well,  but  is  it  true  ?"  Deganway  demanded  resiliently. 

"I  haven't  heard  the  story  yet,"  George  answered.  "I 
don't  know  that  I  particularly  want  to." 

His  tone  was  not  sufficiently  discouraging  to  closure  the 
discussion,  and  Pebbleridge  observed  that  he  had  not  heard 
the  story  either.  I  felt  that  it  was  time  to  intervene. 

"I've  heard  a  story,"  I  said.    "If  Deganway  and  I  mean 


200  SONIA  MARRIED 

the  same  thing,  there's  nothing  in  it.  She  used  to  be  rather 
a  friend  of  yours,  usen't  she,  Deganway?" 

"Oh,  I've  known  her  for  years,"  he  answered  impervious- 
ly and  impenitently. 

George  and  I  walked  part  of  the  way  home  together 
along  Knightsbridge. 

"It  can't  go  on,  you  know,"  he  exclaimed.  "We  had  a 
frontal  attack  from  Lady  Dainton  to-day.  She  called  at 
'The  Sanctuary'  on  her  way  to  Waterloo  and  was  mildly 
surprised  to  find  me  in  possession  and  very  fairly  staggered 
when  I  said  Sonia  was  away  and  that  I  didn't  know  her 
address.  Between  us  we  managed  to  shut  Deganway  up 
to-night,  but  the  story's  being  circulated  by  other  people 
as  well.  I  deny  it,  of  course.  .  .  .  And  I've  seen  Sonia 
with  him  three  times  in  ten  days." 

I  wondered  whether  she  was  trying  to  force  his  hand 
— and  her  husband's. 

"Grayle's  probably  meeting  the  story,  too,"  I  said.  "I 
wonder  how  he  likes  it." 

"He  must  have  been  through  this  sort  of  thing  so  many 
times !"  George  sighed. 

"But  I  doubt  if  he  wants  to  be  the  hero  of  a  cause 
celebre  at  this  moment,"  I  suggested.  "The  political  po- 
sition is  becoming  very  interesting." 

A  few  days  before  I  had  found  myself  at  a  political 
meeting  in  the  City.  We  were  assembled  to  demand  a 
"ton-for-ton"  policy  of  compensation  for  the  merchant 
shipping  which  was  being  sunk  by  German  submarines, 
and  my  seat  on  the  platform  was  next  to  Guy  Banner- 
man's. 

"Grayle  couldn't  come,  so  I'm  representing  him,"  he  ex- 
plained. "You  may  imagine  his  hands  are  pretty  full  at 
present." 

"I  can  well  imagine  it,"  I  said,  "though  I  don't  go  out 
of  my  way  to  meet  him  nowadays."  Guy  looked  at  me 
enquiringly  to  see  how  much  I  knew.  "The  last  time  I 
was  at  Mil  ford  Square  I  was  told  that  you'd  moved  into 
quarters  of  your  own." 


THE  LIMITS  OF  LOYALTY  201 

Guy  nodded  abstractedly. 

"You  know,  I  don't  think  you've  heard  the  whole  story," 
he  said. 

"I've  heard  more  than  I  want  to,"  I  replied,  as  I  began 
to  consult  the  programme  of  the  afternoon's  proceedings. 

"Ah,  but  only  on  one  side.  There  was  such  provoca- 
tion  " 

I  laid  my  hand  on  Guy's  knee. 

"That  was  good  enough  for  her,  but  it  won't  do  for 
me,"  I  said.  "I've  no  doubt  Grayle  worked  it  up  very 
convincingly,  but  you're  far  too  clever  to  be  taken  in  by  it 
and  not  half  clever  enough  to  impose  on  me.  We  both 
of  us  know  that  it's  impossible  to  say  a  single  word  for 
either  of  them.  There  we'd  better  leave  it.  It  can't  be 
undone  now." 

We  were  interrupted  by  the  chairman's  introductory 
speech,  but  at  the  end  of  the  meeting  Guy  took  my  arm 
and  walked  with  me  to  Cannon  Street  Station. 

"I'm  not  trying  to  defend  them,"  he  said.  "In  a  thing 
like  this  no  outsider  can  give  an  opinion  worth  having.  I'm 
only  saying  that  you  might  be  a  bit  more*  lenient,  if  you'd 
heard  both  sides." 

"It  can't  be  undone  now,"  I  repeated. 

As  we  seated  ourselves  in  the  train,  he  asked  me  if  I 
had  any  idea  what  O'Rane  proposed  to  do. 

"Did  Grayle  tell  you  to  find  out?"  I  enquired. 

"Of  course  he  didn't,"  was  the  indignant  rejoinder. 

"But  he  would  be  interested  to  know,"  I  suggested. 
"Well,  I  can't  help  you,  Guy.  O'Rane  has  not  told  me ;  he 
has  not  told  anyone,  so  far  as  I  am  aware.  Why  don't 
you  interview  him  on  the  subject?" 

Though  Guy  is  a  friend,  I  could  not  help  being  a  little 
brutal  to  him  in  manner;  I  have  always  admired  his  loyalty 
to  Grayle,  but  at  this  moment  it  was  a  quality  which 
alienated  me  from  him. 

"It's  no  business  of  mine,"  said  the  faithful  squire. 
"I  don't  know  O'Rane,  but  I  can't  imagine  any  man  sitting 
down  under  this  sort  of  thing." 


202  SONIA  MARRIED 

"Is  Grayle  so  desperately  keen  on  a  divorce?" 
"I've  never  met  anyone  who  went  through  the  Divorce 
Court  for  love  of  the  thing,"  he  answered. 


Half-way  through  November  O'Rane  returned  to  Lon- 
don for  the  mid-term  Leave  Out.  I  was  apprised  of  his 
arrival  by  a  telephone  message  begging  me  to  cancel  any 
other  engagements  and  dine  with  him  informally  at  'The 
Sanctuary." 

It  was  Saturday  night,  and  I  stayed  in  London  to  meet 
him.  George  and  Bertrand  were  his  other  guests,  and  we 
dined  at  one  end  of  the  long  refectory  table  on  the  dais, 
with  the  rest  of  the  room  lit  up  only  by  the  flicker  of  the 
two  fires,  which  sent  shapeless,  indeterminate  shadows 
dancing  up  and  down  the  panelled  walls.  It  is  usually  as 
easy  to  detect  when  a  woman  lives  in  a  house  as  when  a 
house  has  been  unoccupied  for  months.  The  library  was 
perhaps  tidier  than  Mrs.  O'Rane  used  to  leave  it;  other- 
wise it  was  unchanged,  but  it  had  become  indefinably  mas- 
culine. O'Rane  was  as  quiet  and  self-possessed  as  I  had 
always  found  him,  but  now  without  the  noticeable  effort 
which  I  had  observed  at  our  last  two  or  three  meetings.  As 
might  be  expected,  we  talked  throughout  dinner  of  the  war 
and  of  political  changes  in  the  House  of  Commons.  Only 
when  we  were  gathered  round  one  fire  with  our  coffee  and 
cigars  did  he  turn  the  conversation  on  to  himself. 

"I  must  apologise  for  spoiling  your  week-end,"  he  said, 
addressing  himself  to  me,  "I  had  to  take  the  opportunity 
of  seeing  you  when  I  could.  All  three  of  you  have  been 
amazingly  kind  and  amazingly  discreet  and  sympathetic. 
It's — my  funeral,  of  course,  but  I  wanted  you  to  be  present. 
George,  perhaps  you're  the  best  person " 

There  was  a  silence  of  some  moments,  while  George 
turned  his  cigar  round  in  his  mouth  and  stared  at  his 
boots. 

"I  only  know  what  you  asked  me  to  do,  Raney,"  he 


THE  LIMITS  OF  LOYALTY          203 

began  diffidently.  And  then  to  us,  "O'Rane  told  me  to  fix 
up  a  meeting  with  Sonia.  I  went  round  to  Milford  Square 
last  night  and  told  her  that  he  wanted  to — discuss  the 
future,  I  think  I  said.  Grayle  was  present.  She  said  she'd 
come,  if  he  came  with  her;  and  I  arranged  for  half-past  ten 
to-night." 

He  stopped  with  obvious  relief.  O'Rane  was  standing 
with  his  back  to  the  fire,  rocking  gently  from  heel  to  toe, 
with  his  hands  in  his  trouser  pockets.  I  saw  him  put  his 
watch  to  his  ear,  touch  the  repeater  and  smile. 

"It's  not  ten  yet,"  he  said  to  Bertrand  and  me.  "If  you'd 
rather  be  out  of  it.  .  .  .1  got  George  to  attend  as  my  sec- 
ond and  I  wanted  you  two  to  be — well,  to  hear  what  we 
said  and  keep  us  cool.  I've  been  thinking  over  this  busi- 
ness pretty  steadily  for  some  months  and  I  feel  it  can't  go 
on.  My  idea  about  marriage — well,  to  begin  with,  people 
mustn't  marry  unless  they  feel  they  can't  get  on  without 
each  other.  ...  If  they  find  they've  made  a  hopeless 
mistake,  nothing  to  my  way  of  thinking  justifies  spoiling 
two  lives  by  keeping  them  coupled  together.  Sonia  knows 
that,  I've  always  told  her  so.  ...  Well,  no  one  could  find 
anything  to  say  for  our  present  position,  it's  neither  one 
thing  nor  the  other.  If  Sonia's  made  her  choice " 

He  broke  off  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  Bertrand 
turned  his  eyes  away  from  the  boy's  face  and  gazed  slowly 
round  the  long,  warm,  softly-lighted  room.  George  had 
discovered  a  spot  of  grease  on  the  sleeve  of  his  uniform 
and  was  industriously  scraping  it  with  the  end  of  a  wooden 
match. 

"Go  on,  O'Rane,"  I  said  as  gently  as  I  could.  "We 
haven't  got  much  time.  She's  coming  here,  and  you're  go- 
ing to  ask  her  what  she  means  to  do." 

He  nodded  almost  gratefully. 

"Yes.  If  she  tells  me  coolly  and  dispassionately — that's 
why  IVe  got  you  men  here;  I  don't  want  a  scene — that 

she'll  be  happier  with  Grayle "  I  saw  his  underlip 

tremble  before  he  could  get  out  the  name — "After  all,  it's 
her  happiness  .  .  .  isn't  it?" 


204  SONIA  MARRIED 

There  was  another  pause. 

"You'll  set  her  free?"  I  suggested. 

"I  suppose  so,"  he  whispered. 

I  looked  at  Bertrand,  and  he  first  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  then  shook  his  head.  The  first  gesture  seemed  to  mean 
that  he  did  not  mind  what  was  said,  the  second  that  he 
himself  did  not  propose  to  say  it. 

"You  will  divorce  her?"  I  went  on  to  O'Rane.  "I  only 
want  you  to  see  all  sides  of  the  question.  It's  not — pleas- 
ant, but — if  she  wants  it  and  you're  ready  to  face  it  on 
both  your  accounts  .  .  .  There  will  be  a  big  scandal, 
O'Rane.  She's  very  well  known  in  society.  And  any  Mem- 
ber of  Parliament,  even  if  he  wasn't  as  notorious  as 
Grayle  ...  It  will  make  good  copy  for  the  papers,  I'm 
afraid." 

"I'd  save  Sonia  from  it,  if  I  could,"  said  O'Rane,  moisten- 
ing his  lips.  "Of  course,  if  Grayle  doesn't  mind " 

"I  should  think  he'd  mind  very  much,"  I  interrupted.  "If 
he  doesn't  want  to  appear  in  the  Divorce  Court  just  now 


"He  should  have  thought  of  that  before,"  said  O'Rane 
grimly.  Then  he  held  out  his  hands  in  entreaty.  "You 
don't  suggest  I  can  let  it  go  on  any  longer?  Most  people 
would  say  it  had  gone  on  too  long,  that  if  I'd  had  a  spark 
|of  pride — /  cwi't.  Try  to  imagine  if  your  wife  .  .  . 
Thinking  of  it  night  and  day,  night  and  day,  forgetting  for 
a  moment  when  you're  asleep  and  then  waking  up  fresh 
to  it  every  morning  .  .  ."  His  hands  stole  up  and  pressed 
his  temples  as  though  they  were  bursting.  "You  lie  for  a 
moment  wondering  what  it  is  that's  hanging  over  you,"  he 
whispered,  "and  then  you  remember.  .  .  .  And  you  for- 
get again  for  a  moment  when  you're  working  or  people 
are  talking  to  you  .  .  .  but  you  always  know  it's  there  .  .  . 
and  it  comes  back — comes  back  with  a  stab  in  the  middle 
of  whatever  you're  doing.  .  .  .  And  they  mustn't  see. 
.  .  .  God  knows,  a  divorce  won't  alter  things  much,  but 
at  least  it's  a  definite  break,  I've  given  her  up,  I've  got  no 


THE  LIMITS  OF  LOYALTY  205 

claim,  no  rights.  ...  It  can't  go  on  any  longer.  Have — 
have  all  you  men  got  something  to  smoke  ?" 

He  came  quickly  forward  from  the  fire-place  and  touched 
his  way  to  a  table  behind  our  chairs.  Though  his  back  was 
turned,  I  could  see  out  of  the  corner  of  one  eye  that  he  was 
furtively  wiping  his  forehead  with  the  back  of  his  hand. 

"If  by  any  chance  they  don't  want  a  divorce,  will  you 
insist  on  it?"  I  went  on  unsparingly. 

"Of  course  not.  Provided  they  separate.  You  don't 
imagine " 

"If  they  do?  If  your  wife  asks  you  to  forgive  her  and 
have  her  back?" 

O'Rane  had  never  smoked,  I  have  been  told,  since  his 
blindness ;  he  could  no  longer  taste  the  tobacco  nor  keep  it 
alight.  I  observed  him  now  putting  a  cigar  in  his  mouth 
and  chewing  the  end. 

"It's  not  very  likely  to  arise,"  he  said. 

"But  if  it  did?" 

"I'll  wait  till  it  arises." 

He  came  back  to  his  old  place  on  the  hearth-rug,  and  we 
remained  silent  until  the  clock  struck  half-past  ten.  At 
the  sound  I  could  see  the  others  growing  tense  and  ex- 
pectant, as  I  was  doing.  O'Rane  had  been  whistling 
through  his  teeth,  but  he  abandoned  even  this  distraction. 
For  myself,  uncomfortable  as  I  knew  us  all  to  be,  I  could 
not  help  thinking  that  Mrs.  O'Rane  and  Grayle  could  be 
hardly  free  from  all  feelings  of  embarrassment.  To  re- 
turn to  the  house,  which  had  been  given  as  a  wedding 
present  sixteen  months  before,  accompanied  by  the  lover 
with  whom  she  had  left  it,  to  meet  her  husband  and  dis- 
cuss how  he  proposed  to  deal  with  her  infidelity — the  bare 
bones  were  enough  without  clothing  them  in  imagination. 
I  pictured  Mrs.  O'Rane  giving  the  familiar  directions  to 
the  driver,  tapping  on  the  window  when  he  lost  himself  in 
trying  to  take  short  cuts  through  the  streets  of  West- 
minster, stopping  him  at  the  door  and  being  helped  out  by 
Grayle.  .  .  .  And  Grayle,  for  all  his  seasoning,  had  never, 


206  SONIA  MARRIED 

I  was  very  sure,  been  led  by  the  wife  into  her  husband's 
house  and  presence.  .  .  . 

I  scribbled  on  an  envelope  and  handed  it  to  George : 

"Couldn't  they  have  pitched  on  some  other  place  ?" 

"I  wanted  a  private  room  in  an  hotel — neutral  ground," 
he  wrote  back.  "Raney  insisted  on  this.  Moral  effect,  I 
suppose." 

As  I  crushed  the  paper  into  my  pocket,  I  reflected  that 
O'Rane  was  taking  risks.  The  sight  of  the  room  and  of 
himself  might  act  on  his  wife  like  the  smell  of  blood  on  an 
animal. 

The  clock  struck  again,  and  I  exchanged  glances  with 
Bertrand.  It  was  so  characteristic  of  Mrs.  O'Rane,  even  in 
my  short  acquaintance  with  her,  that  she  should  be  late  on 
such  an  occasion. 

"You  did  say  to-night,  didn't  you?"  O'Rane  asked,  try- 
ing to  keep  his  tone  unconcerned. 

"I  don't  suppose  they've  been  able  to  get  a  taxi,"  George 
answered.  "It  was  raining  before  dinner." 

A  moment  later  we  grew  tense  and  expectant  once  more 
at  the  sound  of  an  engine.  I  heard  the  slam  of  a  door 
and  Grayle's  voice  saying,  "Will  you  wait  a  bit?"  Then 
Bertrand,  George  and  I  rose  from  our  chairs,  as  the  flame- 
coloured  curtain  was  drawn  aside  and  Mrs.  O'Rane  walked 
composedly  into  the  room,  with  Grayle  in  his  staff  uniform 
a  pace  behind.  She  narrowed  her  eyes  and  then  raised  her 
brows  almost  imperceptibly  when  she  saw  who  was  present. 

"I'm  sorry  if  we've  kept  you  all  waiting,"  she  said,  as 
she  slipped  her  arms  out  of  her  coat  and  handed  it  to 
Grayle. 

O'Rane  swallowed. 

"Won't  you  sit  down  ?"  he  murmured. 

George  and  I  each  pulled  an  extra  chair  into  the  half- 
circle,  and  I  watched  Mrs.  O'Rane  settling  herself.  Pre- 
sumably she  must  have  started  the  evening  pale,  for  her' 
cheeks  were  slightly  rouged — and  I  had  not  observed  her 
to  use  rouge  before.  Her  eyes,  too,  looked  tired,  as  I  had 
seen  them  at  our  chance  meeting  in  Hyde  Park  several 


THE  LIMITS  OF  LOYALTY  207 

months  before,  but  she  was  perfectly  controlled,  and  I 
could  trace  no  sign  of  nervousness  or  embarrassment.  As 
though  she  were  shewing  herself  off  to  young  Beresford 
or  any  other  of  her  admirers,  I  saw  her  look  down  at  the 
pink  dress  which  she  was  wearing,  smooth  a  crease  out  of 
one  glove,  lift  one  transparent  sleeve  higher  on  to  her 
shoulder  and  settle  the  folds  of  her  skirt.  Grayle  spent 
some  moments  laying  her  coat  carefully  across  the  back 
of  a  chair;  then  dropped  on  to  the  end  of  a  sofa  with  his 
stiff  leg  rigid  in  front  of  him  and  began  peeling  off  his 
gloves  and  tossing  them  into  his  cap.  He,  at  least,  was 
not  at  ease;  and,  when  George  picked  up  the  cigar-box 
and  offered  it  him,  he  stammered  in  his  refusal. 

There  was  a  moment  more  of  silence,  and  then  we 
turned  slowly  and  with  one  accord  towards  O'Rane.  As 
though  he  felt  our  eyes  upon  him,  he  tossed  the  cigar 
behind  him  into  the  fire  and  faced  his  wife. 

"I — George  probably  told  you,  Sonia — I'm  spending  the 
week-end  in  London.  I  thought  we  might  discuss  things 
a  bit." 

Mrs.  O'Rane  looked  unhurriedly  to  left  and  right. 

"By  all  means."  she  acauiesced.  "Do  we  want — quite  all 
these ?" 

"I  should  have  preferred  to  meet  you  alone.  As  Colonel 
Grayle  said  he  was  coming " 

"He  had  a  right  to  come.  Of  course,  if  you  prefer 
everything  dragged  up  in  public  .  .  ." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  began  to  play  with  the 
watch  on  her  wrist. 

"I  think  everyone  here  is  acquainted  with  most  of  the 
facts,"  said  O'Rane.  "But  I'm  not  proposing  to  drag  up 
anything  that's  happened.  I  asked  you  to  come  here  be- 
cause I  wanted  to  talk  about  the  future.  I  expect  every- 
one will  agree  that  the  present  position  can't  continue." 

He  waited  for  a  sign  of  assent.  Mrs.  O'Rane  took  off 
one  glove  and  helped  herself  to  a  cigarette  from  the  gold 
case  at  her  wrist. 

"I  told  Mr.  Stornaway  that  you  were  at  liberty  to  di- 


208  SONIA  MARRIED 

vorce  me,"  she  said  with  a  glance  in  my  direction.  "I 
said  I  was  willing  to  face  it.  I  don't  know  whether  you 
ever  got  the  message." 

I  decided  to  watch  Grayle,  but  he  was  sitting  with  his 
head  back,  staring  at  the  ceiling  and  occasionally  blowing 
elongated  smoke-rings. 

"The  Divorce  Court  is — an  unsavoury  place,"  O'Rane  ob- 
served. "I  want  you  to  believe,  Sonia,  that  what  I've  al- 
ways said  is  as  true  now  as  when  I  first  said  it.  I  put  your 
happiness  higher  than  anything  in  the  world,  I'm  trying  to 
leave  myself  out  of  this." 

Mrs.  O'Rane  looked  once  at  her  husband,  and  her  eyes 
seemed  to  harden;  then  she  glanced  without  apparent  pur- 
pose at  the  half  of  the  room  which  was  within  her  field 
of  vision.  I  noticed  for  the  first  time  that  the  flower- 
vases  were  empty;  I  fancy  that  she  noticed  it,  too.  Her 
mouth  began  to  purse,  and  I  knew  that  O'Rane  would  have 
done  better  to  hold  his  meeting  elsewhere. 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,"  she  said  stiffly.  "Isn't  it  rather 
late  in  the  day  for  you  to  be  thinking  of  my  happiness? 

When  I  lived  here But  you  said  you  didn't  want  to  go 

into  what  was  past.  The  future's  simply  in  your  hands. 
I've  told  you  I'm  willing  to  face  it.  I  don't  believe  in  this 
modern  business  of  the  man  always  letting  himself  be  di- 
vorced by  the  woman.  I'm — willing — to  face  it.  You've 
got  your  witnesses;  they'll  stand  by  you,  if  anybody  criti- 
cises you." 

"But  if  I  don't  want  to  see  you  in  the  Divorce  Court, 
Sonia?" 

"I'm  afraid  that's  one  of  the  things  you  can't  help." 

O'Rane's  chin  dropped  on  to  his  chest,  and  he  began  to 
pace  up  and  down  the  ten-foot  rug  in  front  of  the  fire  with 
his  hands  plunged  into  his  pockets  and  his  fists  so  tightly 
clenched  that  the  knuckles  of  either  hand  stood  out  in 
four  sharp  lumps  against  the  sides  of  his  trousers.  Grayle 
still  sat  like  a  husband  reluctantly  dragged  to  hear  a  dull 
sermon;  Mrs.  O'Rane  set  herself  to  light  a  second  cigarette 
from  the  glowing  stump  of  the  first,  leaning  forward  so 


THE  LIMITS  OF  LOYALTY 

that  the  ash  should  not  scatter  over  the  pink  dress.  A 
quarter  past  eleven  struck,  and  I  remember  that  Bertrand 
and  I  gravely  consulted  our  watches  and  pretended  to  com- 
pare them  by  the  clock  on  the  mantel-piece. 

At  last  O'Rane  halted  by  Grayle's  chair. 

"You're  in  this,  too,  Colonel  Grayle,"  he  said.  "Once 
more  we  need  concern  ourselves  only  with  the  future.  I 
should  like  to  hear  your  views." 

Grayle  brought  his  head  forward  with  a  sharp  jerk. 

"It's  her  happiness  we're  considering,"  he  agreed  slowly, 
with  his  eyes  on  O'Rane's  waist.  "I — well,  it's  for  her  to 
say ;  I  obviously  can't  tell  you  what  will  make  her  happiest, 
she's  the  only  person  who  can  do  that.  You've  not  put 
forward  any  case  for  yourself,  I  musn't  put  forward  any 
for  myself.  She  must  tell  us  both  whether  she's  been  happy 
enough  these  last  months  to  want  to  go  on.  .  .  .1  may 
say — you  haven't  attacked  me,  so  perhaps  I  don't  need  to 
defend  myself — I  may  say  that,  when  a  woman's  unhappily 
married,  I  don't  regard  her  as  being  under  any  obligation 
to  her  husband ;  she's  free  to  start  her  life  again ;  and  any 
man  is  free  to  share  that  life,  if  she  sees  fit.  That — that's 
my  theory,  in  case  you  feel  there's  any  question  of  rights 
involved." 

His  tone  was  becoming  truculent,  but  O'Rane  nodded 
gravely. 

"Yes.  But  we  agreed  to  leave  the  past  alone,"  he  said. 
"I've  knocked  about  a  good  bit  the  last  thirty  years  and 
I  can  assure  you  that  I  never  want  to  be  put  on  my  trial  for 
anything.  Let's  stick  to  the  future.  Do  you  wish — my 
wife  to  go  through  the  Divorce  Court?" 

I  looked  at  Mrs.  O'Rane  to  see  if  the  offending  word 
would  rouse  her,  but  she  seemed  not  to  have  heard  it. 
The  hard  composure  of  her  entrance  had  broken  down,  she 
seemed  ready  to  faint  with  fatigue,  and  the  patches  of 
rouge  on  cheeks  that  were  grown  suddenly  white  gave  her 
an  absurd  something  of  a  Dutch  doll's  appearance.  I 
fetched  her  a  tumbler  of  soda-water,  and  her  smile  of 
thanks  was  the  first  human  thing  that  I  had  seen  about  her 


zio  SONIA  MARRIED 

that  night.  As  she  began  to  sip  it,  I  saw  her  glance  over 
the  brim  at  Grayle. 

"I  don't  wish  it,"  he  said  at  length.  "What—what  else  is 
possible?" 

"You  can  say  good-bye  to  her,"  O'Rane  suggested 
quietly. 

Grayle  looked  up  uncomprehendingly ;  and  Mrs.  O'Rane's 
eyes  flashed  in  sympathy. 

"Desert  her,  you  mean?" 

"It's  hardly  the  word  I  should  have  chosen,  but  we 
needn't  go  into  that.  Colonel  Grayle,  neither  you  nor  I 
want  a  scandal.  By  the  mercy  of  God,  there's  only  one 
man  outside  this  room  who  knows  what's  been  taking  place 
all  these  months.  We've  agreed  that  my  wife's  happiness 
is  the  thing  that  we're  both  unselfishly  seeking,  we  won't 
bandy  rights  and  wrongs  or  grievances  or  justifications — 
we  won't  even  try  to  put  our  love  for  her  into  a  scale. 
If  you  give  me  your  word  of  honour  that  you'll  never  see 
or  speak  to  my  wife  again,  I  will  take  no  further  steps; 
I'm  not  trying  to  steal  her  away  from  you  so  that  I  may 
get  her  back  myself — she  must  determine  her  own  hap- 
piness. You  and  I  can  at  least  spare  her  the  unhappiness, 
the  vulgarity,  the  morbid,  sniggering  curiosity  of  a  public 
scandal.  She  can  live  in  another  part  of  the  house,  live 
away  from  me,  let  it  be  known  confidentially  that  we 
somehow  didn't  manage  to  get  on  very  well  together.  .  .  . 
Are  you  prepared  to  make  that  sacrifice  for  her  happiness  ?" 

Grayle  lit  another  cigarette,  coughed  and  fetched  himself 
a  syphon  and  tumbler. 

"You're  begging  the  question,"  he  said  at  length.  "You 
can't  define  the  conditions  of  Sonia's  happiness." 

"I  know  what  will  make  her  unhappy.  That's  good 
enough  as  a  negative  definition." 

Mrs.  O'Rane  pushed  her  chair  back  a  few  inches  and 
rose  to  her  feet.  She  looked  round  for  her  coat  and 
walked  to  the  chair  where  Grayle  had  laid  it. 

"I've  said  I'm  ready  to  face  everything  and  everybody," 


THE  LIMITS  OF  LOYALTY  211 

she  said  over  her  shoulder,  as  she  slipped  her  arms  into  the 
sleeves. 

"But,  please  God!  you  don't  know  what  you're  facing!" 
O'Rane  cried  with  an  outburst  of  emotion  which  he  was  no 
longer  able  to  contain.  "Grayle,  you  say  you  love  her!  If 
you  care  a  snap  of  the  fingers  for  her,  if  you've  any  hu- 
manity, any  decent  feeling  in  the  whole  of  your  composi- 
tion, if  you  hope  for  mercy  in  this  world  or  the  next,  you've 
got  your  opportunity  now !  The  one  thing  you  can  do  for 
her  abiding  happiness  is  to  take  my  hand  and  swear  you'll 
never  see  her  again.  You  know  it  is!  You  can  walk  out 
of  this  house  and  leave  her  so  that  no  one  will  dare  to 
say  a  word  against  her  for  fear  of  being  thrashed  within 
an  inch  of  his  life.  If  she  doesn't  get  on  well  with  me, 
if  we  part  by  common  consent,  that's  my  fault;  everyone 
will  say  that  I  was  always  eccentric,  that  she  was  a  fool 
to  marry  me,  that  I've  spoiled  her  life.  .  .  .  Will  you  do 
that,  Grayle?  Will  you  shew  that  what  you  call  your  love 
for  her  means  something  ?" 

As  he  ended,  I  heard  a  muffled  banging  on  the  front 
door.  George  hurried  away,  and  a  moment  later  there 
came  the  sound  of  an  engine  starting. 

"It  was  only  the  taximan,"  he  explained,  as  he  came 
back.  "He's  got  a  train  to  catch  at  Victoria,  so  I  paid  him 
off.  We  can  telephone  for  another  one  when  it's  wanted." 

Mrs.  O'Rane  looked  at  her  watch  and  frowned. 

"I  wish  you  hadn't  done  that,  George,"  she  cried  petu- 
lantly. "It  was  pouring  when  we  came,  and  now  we  shall 
probably  have  to  walk  home.  ...  I  don't  see  that  there's 
anything  more  to  be  said.  It's  very  kind  of  everyone  to 
take  so  much  trouble  about  me,  but,  if  I'm  prepared  to  go 
through  with  it,  that  ends  the  matter." 

"But  you're  talking  about  something  you  don't  under- 
stand, Sonia!'  cried  O'Rane. 

"Perhaps  I  understand  better  than  you  think,"  she  an- 
swered. "It's  just  conceivable  that  Vincent  and  I  both 
thought  about  the  consequences  beforehand.  Good-bye." 

She  turned  to  the  door,  and  Grayle  followed  her.    George 


212  SONIA  MARRIED 

moved  mechanically  forward  to  open  it  for  them.  Bertrand 
and  I  remained  where  we  were,  watching  O'Rane  smooth 
back  a  wisp  of  black  hair  that  was  glued  to  his  forehead. 


It  was  characteristic  of  O'Rane  that  he  went  back  to  Mel- 
ton at  the  end  of  his  leave  without  hinting  to  anyone  what 
he  was  going  to  do.  After  his  wife  and  Grayle  left  "The 
Sanctuary,"  I  waited  for  perhaps  ten  minutes  to  see 
whether  he  wanted  my  opinion  or  advice,  but  he  made  no 
reference  to  the  scene  at  which  we  had  all  been  present. 
All  that  he  said  to  the  Oakleighs  was,  "Well,  I'm  rather 
tired.  I  think  I  shall  go  to  bed."  He  disappeared  as  quietly 
and  suddenly  as  he  had  come;  perhaps  we  were  to  see 
him  back  in  six  weeks'  time  at  the  end  of  term,  but  even 
this  was  uncertain. 

The  advent  of  autumn,  bringing  with  it  the  recognition 
that  there  must  be  another  winter  in  the  trenches,  roused 
the  country  from  the  uncaring  optimism  or  placid  resigna- 
tion in  which  the  summer  had  been  passed.  In  the  London 
press,  at  the  Club,  in  the  House  and  at  private  dinner 
tables,  I  found  very  general  agreement  that  the  war  had 
entered  upon  a  new  phase.  A  timid  minority  earnestly 
confided  to  discreetly  chosen  audiences  that  the  people  who 
talked  about  a  deadlock  and  a  stale-mate  peace  were  prov- 
ing right  after  all.  With  the  exception  of  Beresford,  who 
thought  no  opinion  worth  holding  unless  he  shouted  it  from 
the  house-tops,  the  new  peace-school  was  obviously  fright- 
ened of  being  called  unpatriotic  or  pro-German.  Bertrand 
would  shake  his  head  gloomily  and  begin  sentences  half- 
j  ocularly  with — "I  suppose  I  shall  be  called  the  Hidden 
Hand  next,  but  all  I  can  say  is.  .  .  ."  Whatever  it  was,  he 
said  it  in  an  undertone  and  made  sure  of  his  man  before 
saying  it.  Others  tried  to  avert  personal  attacks  by  dis- 
cussing war  and  peace  in  the  abstract,  adducing  uncertain 
historical  parallels  and  wondering  academically  whether  it 


THE  LIMITS  OF  LOYALTY  213 

was  wise  to  aim  at  humiliating  a  great  country  too  much ; 
were  we  not  sowing  the  seeds  of  future  wars  ? 

The  discussion  seldom  continued  to  be  academic,  and 
the  peace  school  by  its  furtiveness  and  timidity  invited  per- 
secution, as  does  the  mild  urchin  at  school  who  never  stands 
up  for  himself  and  becomes  a  legitimate  target  for  his 
fellows'  kicks.  Early  in  December  there  was  much  talk  of 
the  American  "peace-kite."  President  Wilson  had  been  re- 
elected,  his  hands  were  free,  and  for  four  years  he  could 
mould  the  policy  of  the  United  States  without  fear  of  an 
election.  It  was  said  that  his  patience  was  nearing  its 
limits,  that  he  was  ready  to  break  off  diplomatic  relations 
with  Germany  and  that  the  "peace-kite"  was  a  last  at- 
tempt to  arrive  at  terms  of  settlement  before  deciding  to 
plunge  his  country  into  war. 

The  rumours  of  peace  discussions  and  possible  terms 
produced  an  immediate  repercussion  in  London  and  de- 
veloped a  greater  intensity  of  political  feeling  than  had 
been  known  since  the  war  began.  There  was  said  to  be 
a  peace-party  in  the  Cabinet;  the  blunders  and  catastro- 
phes of  more  than  two  years  were  set  down  to  the  malevo- 
lence of  Ministers  who  had  been  driven  to  war  against 
their  will  and  were  only  anxious  for  an  immediate  end, 
even  if  such  an  end  meant  victory  for  the  enemy ;  I  heard 
once  again  Lady  Maitland's  confident  assertion  that  the 
Government  was  in  German  pay.  .  .  .  There  could  be 
little  academic  discussion  in  such  an  atmosphere,  and  the 
one  public  attempt  which  I  heard  Bertrand  make  was  lit- 
erally shouted  down. 

"All  I  say,"  he  kept  repeating  one  night  at  Ross  House, 
"is  that  I  see  no  reason  why  we  should  be  successful  in 
1917,  when  we've  failed  in  1916.  I  may  be  wrong;  I  don't 
pretend  to  have  sufficient  data.  I  only  warn  you  that  in 
six  months'  time  you  may  have  to  accept  worse  terms  than 
you  could  get  now — with  a  balance  of  half  a  million  or 
a  million  lives  the  wrong  way.  That's  a  big  responsibility." 

"You'd  let  Germany  keep  all  she's  got,"  Lady  Maitland 
asked,  "as  an  instalment?" 


214  SONIA  MARRIED 

"Germany's  broken,  as  it  is,"  Bertrand  answered.  "She 
can  never  make  good  her  losses  and  she'd  gladly  discuss 
terms.  But,  good  Heavens!  even  if  we  didn't  accept  the 
terms,  there's  surely  no  harm  in  discussing  them !" 

Maitland  shook  his  head  sagely. 

"When  I'm  dealing  with  the  burglar  who's  collared  my 
silver/'  he  said,  "I  prefer  not  to  argue  until  he's  divested 
himself  of  what  I  believe  is  called  the  swag." 

"You  may  prefer  not  to.  Can  you  enforce  your  prefer- 
ence?" Bertrand  asked  rather  curtly. 

"Then  let's  go  down  fighting,"  Lady  Maitland  proposed 
valiantly. 

"With  great  submission,  a  live  dog's  better  than  a  dead 
lion,"  said  Bertrand.  "I've  so  much  faith  in  the  poten- 
tialities of  my  country  that  I  want  to  preserve  her." 

Lady  Maitland  turned  on  him  with  unaffected  ferocity. 

"If  you  make  peace  now,  you'll  disgrace  her!"  she  cried. 
"We  shall  never  be  able  to  hold  up  our  heads  again !" 

Young  Lady  Loring,  who  was  between  Bertrand  and 
me,  was  no  less  strong. 

"Uncle  Bertrand,  you  can't  be  serious !"  she  exclaimed. 
"We  should  be  faithless  to  those  who've  died,  if  we  didn't 
hold  on.  I — I  would  sooner  have  my  husband  killed  a 
second  time  than  go  back  on  the  dead !" 

Her  intensity  of  feeling  caused  a  stir,  followed  by  an 
embarrassed  pause.  Maitland  brought  it  to  an  end  by 
shaking  his  head  good-humouredly. 

"I  say,  Oakleigh,  old  man,  if  I  may  say  so,  you  oughtn't 
to  talk  like  that,  you  know.  You're  a  man  in  a  responsi- 
ble position,  people  quote  what  you  say.  It  produces  a 
devilish  bad  impression." 

My  instinctive  sympathy  is  always  with  the  minority,  and 
I  came  mildly  to  Bertrand's  support. 

"I  agree  with  Oakleigh  to  this  extent,"  I  said.  "All  of 
us  here  are  either  women  or  men  over  military  age.  We 
ought  to  check  the  easy  impulse  to  make  other  people  fight 
to  the  bitter  end." 

"You  won't  hear  any  peace-talk  at  the  Front,"  inter- 


THE  LIMITS  OF  LOYALTY  215 

posed  Maitland.  "I've  just  come  back  from  G.H.Q.,  you 
know." 

Bertrand  gave  a  snort  of  impatience. 

"You  won't  find  people  lighting  pipes  in  high-explosive 
factories,"  he  answered.  "It's  against  the  rules.  At  the 
present  time  the  policy  of  the  war  is  dictated  by  people 
who  can't  conceivably  be  sent  to  carry  it  out.  Stornaway's 
quite  right.  We  fat  old  men  sit  at  home  and  water  the 
fields  of  Flanders  with  other  people's  blood.  We  say  that, 
if  they  don't  go  on  to  the  bitter  end,  there'll  be  another  war 
in  ten  years.  It's  wrong,  and  we've  been  wrong  every 
day  we've  gone  on  after  we  shewed  the  Germans  that  they 
couldn't  overrun  Europe  at  will.  /  went  through  the  phase 
of  (dismembering  Germany,  deposing  the  Kaiser,  com- 
mandeering the  Fleet." 

There  was  an  unfortunate  note  of  intellectual  superiority 
in  his  voice,  as  though  he  alone  had  waded  through  the 
depths  and  shallows  of  folly  and  was  at  last  (and  alone) 
on  dry  land.  His  reward  was  immediate  interruption  by  a 
chorus  from  every  quarter  of  the  table  at  once. 

"Perhaps  if  you'd  had  a  brother  in  solitary  confinement 
for  eight  months  because  he  called  the  guard  a  Schwein- 
hund,  which  was  the  only  word  they'd  given  him  a  chance 

of  learning "  began  little  Agnes  Waring  on  my  left 

with  considerable  heat. 

"You  wouldn't  stir  a  finger  to  avenge  Belgium?"  de- 
manded Lady  Maitland. 

"Oakleigh !  Oakleigh !"  her  husband  expostulated. 
"You're  too  old  to  fight  yourself;  for  God's  sake  don't 
damp  the  ardour  of  those  who  can,  those  who'll  go  on  till 
they've  dictated  their  own  peace  terms — in — Berlin,"  he 
ended  proudly. 

As  the  chorus  subsided  for  want  of  breath,  Frank  Jella- 
by,  who  was  now  one  of  the  Liberal  Whips  in  the  Coalition, 
allowed  his  incisive,  nasal  drawl  to  rise  and  dominate  the 
table. 

"The  trouble  about  you,  Oakleigh,  is  that  you  go  through 
so  many  phases;  we  poor,  benighted  folk  can't  keep  up 


2i6  SONIA  MARRIED 

with  you.  There  was  a  phase — quite  a  long  one,  for  you 
— when  any  war  with  Germany  was  impossible,  unthink- 
able. Didn't  you  run  a  paper  to  prove  it?  When  the  war 
came,  someone  twitted  you  in  the  House,  and  you  made  a 
personal  statement — and  a  pretty  complete  recantation. 
You've  been  wrong  here,  wrong  there.  .  .  .  If  I  may  put 
it  quite  brutally,  how  are  we  to  know  you're  not  just  as 
wrong  now,  how  soon  may  we  expect  another  personal 
statement?" 

"Have  all  your  prophecies  been  right?"  Bertrand  en- 
quired. 

"What  prophecies  have  I  made?"  was  the  bland  and 
temporarily  safe  rejoinder. 

It  was  the  one  articulate  effort  which  I  heard  at  this 
time  to  determine  the  limits  of  military  effort.  It  was 
derided  and  drowned;  and  from  that — as  we  had  to  go  on 
fighting — there  was  a  short  and  easy  road  to  criticism  of 
present  methods. 

"We've  put  our  hands  to  the  plough,"  said  Maitland 
placatingly,  when  the  ladies  had  left  us.  "We  can't  turn 
back,  Oakleigh.  And  I'm  afraid  I  believe  that  the  biggest 
trial's  still  ahead  of  us." 

"And  you're  satisfied  we  shall  come  out  of  that  any  bet- 
ter?" Bertrand  answered.  "Your  experience  of  the  war 
leads  you  to  expect  that?  God  knows,  the  men  don't  lack 
courage  or  sticking-power,  but  can  you  find  them  general- 
ship?" 

"We  must  go  on  till  we  do." 

Bertrand  smoked  for  some  moments  in  a  reflective  si- 
lence. 

"It's  a  curious  thing,"  he  observed  at  length,  "that  a  war 
of  this  size  hasn't  thrown  up  a  single  soldier  of  first-rate 
genius." 

Maitland,  for  all  that  he  had  made  the  cleanest  possible 
job  of  an  Afghan  raid  and  was  now  counter-initialling 
minutes  in  an  extension  of  the  War  Office,  took  the  criti- 
cism as  personal. 


THE  LIMITS  OF  LOYALTY  217 

"That  is  precisely  what  the  soldiers  say  of  you  politi- 
cians/' he  retorted. 

"The  soldiers'  job  is  to  understand  warfare  and  run  a 
war,"  Bertrand  propounded. 

"The  statesman's  job  is  to  govern,"  Maitland  retaliated. 
"That's  just  what  the  Cabinet  doesn't  do  and  just  what 
you  M.P.'s  don't  make  it  do." 

In  the  altercation  which  followed  I  listened  to  Maitland 
and  watched  Jellaby.  The  first  acted  as  a  barometer  to 
mark  the  variations  of  average,  prejudiced,  unthinking 
opinion;  it  was  the  business  of  the  second  to  follow  the 
daily  movement  of  the  barometer.  I  did  not  need  a  second 
look  at  Jellaby  to  know  that  he  was  worried.  He  and  I 
had  talked  in  odd  half-hours  at  the  House  about  the  pos- 
sibility of  attaining  the  objects  for  which  we  had  entered 
the  war ;  when  our  prospects  were  far  brighter,  Jellaby  had 
been  more  rationally  despondent,  and  I  chose  to  think  that 
his  attack  on  Bertrand  was  an  inspired  attempt  to  suggest 
that  any  consideration  of  peace  was  at  present  out  of  the 
question  and  that  a  hard-pressed  Government  had  better 
use  for  its  time  and  energies  than  debating-society  reso- 
lutions. He  made  no  defence  or  comment,  however,  when 
Maitland  developed  a  damaging  attack  on  the  Cabinet,  and 
I  fancied  that  he  could  not  speak  without  indiscretion. 
Whether  the  Press  reflected  the  public  or  the  public  reflected 
the  Press,  there  was  a  widespread  feeling  that  an  ungainly 
cabinet  of  twenty-two  talked  incessantly  and  decided  noth- 
ing, that  countries  were  overrun  and  opportunities  thrown 
away,  because  no  one  acted  in  time  and  that,  paralysing  as 
this  collective  lethargy  so  often  and  so  tragically  proved,  it 
was  still  no  check  on  the  spasmodic  and  misdirected  energy 
of  individual  members.  Bertrand  was  one  of  a  school 
which  scented  Press  intrigue  in  every  political  develop- 
ment, but,  as  Grayle  was  credited  with  having  said,  "A 
Government  which  can't  down  Northclifre  can't  down  the 
Germans." 

Of  Grayle  I  saw  nothing  at  this  time,  though  a  fresh  crop 
of  rumours  told  me  that  he  was  engaged  once  more  on  the 


218  SONIA  MARRIED 

task  which  he  had  begun  a  year  and  a  half  before,  after 
the  battle  of  Neuve  Chapelle.  Watchful  friends  discov- 
ered him  slipping  in  and  out  of  the  houses  of  Unionist 
ministers;  there  were  tales  of  informal  gatherings  and 
chance  week-end  meetings  at  Brighton  or  on  Shannon 
Wood  golf-course. 

"He  wants  a  new  coalition  under  Lloyd-George,"  Ber- 
trand  explained,  "but  the  Tories  aren't  nibbling.  You  see, 
there's  no  popular  cry  that  they  can  put  up.  George  is  at 
the  War  Office;  if  he  and  they  can't  make  their  will  ef- 
fective, they'd  better  resign  like  Carson,  they  mustn't  pro- 
claim their  own  impotence  by  whimpering.  But  they  can't 
resign  on  the  ground  that  the  war's  being  mismanaged,  be- 
cause they're  jointly  and  severally  responsible  for  the  mis- 
management. There's  no  issue." 

Later  on  he  talked  to  me  with  a  mixture  of  resigna- 
tion and  disappointment. 

"If  the  Government  falls,  it  will  be  simply  because  it 
doesn't  know  its  own  strength.  It  runs  away  every  time 
anyone  shakes  a  stick  at  it;  it  never  says,  'Turn  us  out 
and  be  damned!'  Meanwhile  its  authority  is  being  sapped 
daily.  .  .  .  It's  the  old  complaint  I  brought  against  it  for 
eight  years  before  the  war.  Ministers  are  so  high  and 
mighty  that  they  never  remember  who  it  is  that  keeps  'em 
in  power.  'Never*  explain,  never  complain !'  It  won't  do ! 
For  months  the  Press  has  been  urging  that  something  must 
be  done  to  raise  fresh  drafts  after  the  Somme  slaughter, 
that  food  prices  must  be  controlled,  that  Ireland  can't  be 
left  where  she  is.  The  Government  goes  about  like 
Caesar's  wife.  .  .  .  And  everyone  thinks  it's  doing  nothing, 
and  where  should  we  be  without  Lord  Northcliffe  ?  And 
give  us  a  Man!  I  don't  know  when  or  where  the  break 
will  come,  but  I  hear  most  ominous  cracks." 

The  break  came — unexpectedly,  so  far  as  I  was  con- 
cerned— in  the  first  week  of  December.  I  say  "unexpected- 
ly," because  I  have  yet  to  discover  why  the  Government 
did  not  fall  three  months  earlier  or  endure  until  three 
months  later.  Bertrand,  who  took  on  a  new  lease  of  life 


THE  LIMITS  OF  LOYALTY          219 

when  the  days  of  crisis  approached,  told  me  that  the  point 
of  cleavage  was  the  question  whether  more  troops  should 
be  sent  to  Salonica.  True  or  false,  this  was  obscured  by 
an  ultimatum  in  which  the  Secretary  of  State  for  War 
called  for  a  Merovingian  War  Cabinet  in  which  the  Prime 
Minister  was  to  have  no  place. 

As  I  walked  home  from  my  office,  the  contents  bills  bore 
the  legend,  "England's  Strong  Man  to  Go."  George  Oak- 
leigh  and  one  or  two  others  were  dining  with  me,  and  by 
the  time  that  I  was  dressed  the  news  was  being  shouted  in 
the  streets  that  the  Government  had  resigned.  I  suppose 
that  I  am  as  near  to  an  Independent  as  the  caucuses  and  the 
House  of  Commons  will  allow,  but,  though  I  had  opposed 
the  old  Liberal  administration  in  fully  half  of  its  meas- 
ures, I  felt  a  sentimental  regret  that  the  long  rule  was  over. 
It  closed  an  epoch  to  me  at  a  time  of  life  when  I  did  not 
want  to  close  epochs. 

"I  had  four  years  of  it  at  the  beginning,"  said  George 
unenthusiastically.  "I'm  afraid  that  in  my  youth  and  inex- 
perience I  hoped  more  of  it  than  it  was  capable  of  giving. 
And  I  was  rather  glad  to  be  out  when  the  war  came 
along.  Beresford's  quite  right,  you  know;  for  seven  or 
eight  years  the  fate  of  this  country  was  in  the  hands  of 
three  or  four  men  who  accepted  our  support  and  never 
gave  us  an  inkling  where  they  were  taking  us.  Are  all 
political  rank-and-filers  treated  as  cavalierly  as  we've  been  ? 
It  goes  on  right  to  the  end.  The  Coalition  came  into 
existence  without  consulting  the  Liberal  Party  and  now  it's 
gone  out — every  bit  as  much  on  its  own.  You  and  I  don't 
know  why;  there  was  no  vote,  no  trial  of  strength.  No- 
body can  say  how  many  supporters  anyone  else  can  claim ; 
there  isn't  even  the  usual  man  who's  defeated  the  Govern- 
ment for  the  King  to  send  for.  They  have  treated  the 
party  like  dirt!  Now  it  remains  to  be  seen  whether  an 
alternative  Government  can  be  formed." 

That  night  and  for  a  day  or  two  afterwards  London 
was  filled  with  a  greater  political  excitement  than  I  can 
ever  remember  at  any  other  time.  Bertrand  told  me  that, 


220  SONIA  MARRIED 

in  the  interests  of  governmental  and  national  unity,  there 
had  been  a  disposition  to  accept  the  terms  of  the  ultimatum, 
but  that  a  majority  had  decided  that  here  at  least  a  stand 
must  be  made. 

"Now  you  simply  must  tell  me  what's  happening !"  young 
Deganway  exclaimed  when  I  met  him  dining  late  at  the 
Club.  "Bonar  Law's  been  sent  for,  as  you  know,  but  I 
hear  he's  told  the  King  he  can't  form  a  Government.  That 
leaves  only  George.  How  much  life  do  you  give  him? 
Three  weeks?  I  want  you  to  say  three  weeks,  because 
I've  got  a  fortnight  bet  on  the  other  way  with  a  man  in 
the  War  Office  and  I'm  rather  inclined  to  hedge." 

The  next  day  it  was  announced  officially  that  Mr.  Bonar 
Law  was  unable  to  form  a  Government  and  that  the  King 
had  sent  for  the  Secretary  of  State  for  War.  There  was 
fresh  furious  speculation  how  short  a  time  would  suffice 
to  shew  that  he  would  fail,  as  his  predecessor  had  failed, 
but  the  speculation  was  incommoded  by  the  intrusion  of 
fact.  Bertrand  informed  me  that  the  Prime  Minister-Elect 
had  struck  a  bargain  with  Labour,  but  that  the  Liberal  and 
Unionist  members  of  the  Coalition  were  refusing  to  serve 
under  a  man  who  had  slain  his  master.  I  next  heard  that 
the  Unionist  attitude  was  modified,  that  it  was  felt  the 
King's  Government  must  be  carried  on,  that  pressure  had 
been  brought.  .  .  . 

"Of  course,  when  once  the  rot  sets  in!"  cried  George 
Oakleigh,  when  we  met  by  the  tape-machine  at  the  Club. 
He  was  undisguisedly  disappointed,  which  was  interesting. 
For  eight  or  nine  years  I  had  heard  from  him  plain  and 
bitter  criticism  of  the  Government,  but  the  old  faith  in  his 
political  idols  had  survived  unexpectedly  to  make  him  forget 
the  war  and  become  the  most  excited  of  partisans.  No 
terms  were  too  strong  to  describe  the  treachery  which  had 
laid  the  Government  low;  his  new-born  good-will  towards 
the  dead  Ministry  was  only  exceeded  by  his  blind  an- 
tagonism to  any  alternative.  "There  was  a  day  when  Lloyd 
George  could  not  get  a  man  near  him ;  then  the  Tories  be- 
gan to  rat  and  everyone  tried  to  elbow  his  way  in  before 


THE  LIMITS  OF  LOYALTY  221 

his  neighbour.  .  .  .  He'd  got  the  liver  in  his  pocket,  every- 
one was  afraid  of  being  left  out,  the  doors  of  the  War 
Office  weren't  wide  enough  to  let  them  all  in.  This  latest 
development  has  rather  disgusted  me  with  politics.  I 
shouldn't  have  minded,  if  it  had  been  an  ordinary  peace- 
time political  intrigue.  I  suppose  I've  been  hoping  for  a 
higher  standard  since  the  war  .  .  .  gratitude — things  of 
that  kind.  How  are  you  going  to  vote,  Stornaway? 
Bertrand  keeps  saying  that  he  must  support  the  de  facto 
Government.  Is  that  your  view?" 

"I  want  to  see  the  de  facto  Government  first,"  I  said. 

"You've  an  intelligent  anticipation  here,"  he  answered, 
handing  me  a  copy  of  the  "Night  Gazette."  "Sir  John 
Woburn  can  be  relied  on  to  have  good  stable  information." 

The  first  page  of  the  paper  contained  a  streaming  head- 
line—"Do  It  Now"  or  "Wait  and  See?"  Underneath 
came  an  obviously  inspired  forecast  of  the  new  ministry 
with  the  old  Unionist  and  Labour  members  back  in  place 
as  to  some  eighty  per  centum  of  their  numbers;  the  old 
Liberal  office-holders  were  collectively  abstaining,  and  their 
place  in  the  party  scale  was  filled  by  consequential  no- 
bodies and  by  the  leaders  of  the  Liberal  "ginger  group." 

"If  they've  got  rid  of  the  brains,  at  least  they've  kept 
the  dead-heads,"  George  observed.  "I  don't  see  stability 
or  long  life  here,  Stornaway.  Everyone  knows  that 
Woburn  and  the  Press  Combine  turned  the  Coalition  out, 
and  now,  before  a  single  name  has  been  submitted  to  the 
King,  the  Press  Combine's  at  work  devouring  its  own 
child.  The  new  Ministry's  too  much  tarred  with  the  brush 
of  the  old,  Balfour  and  Robert  Cecil  and  the  less  feather- 
brained are  to  be  pushed  out  of  their  offices  some  time  be- 
fore they  get  into  them.  It's  going  to  be  a  very  clean 
sweep." 

I  heard  later  that  the  attack  on  the  elder  Unionist  states- 
men was  abandoned  on  the  day  when  the  Unionist  party 
threatened  to  withdraw  its  support  from  the  new  Coalition 
unless  newspaper  attacks  on  its  members  ceased  imme- 
diately. 


222  SONIA  MARRIED 

"Is  Grayle  included?"  I  asked,  as  George  drew  an  ex- 
pressive finger  down  the  draft  list. 

"He  gets  a  new  Ministry  of  Recruiting.  At  least,  when 
I  say  that  he  gets  it,"  George  corrected  himself,  "this  is 
quite  unofficial,  of  course.  He's  suggested  for  it." 

"I  wonder  if  he'll  get  it,"  I  said. 


In  London,  more  even  than  in  the  fabled  Indian  bazaar, 
the  secret  of  to-day  is  the  thrice-told  tale  of  to-morrow. 
The  same  few  thousand  men  and  women  migrate  so  regu- 
larly from  one  to  another  of  the  same  few  hundred  houses 
that,  if  you  let  fall  a  piece  of  gossip  at  luncheon  in  Chester- 
field Gardens,  it  will  have  taken  wing  to  Portman  Square 
and  Hans  Place  by  tea-time  and  will  set  tongues  wagging 
over  the  dinner-tables  of  Westminster,  Pall  Mall  and  Pic- 
cadilly. By  Saturday  night  the  germ-carrfers  have  spread 
themselves  for  a  hundred  miles  to  the  west,  north  and 
south;  before  the  week-end  is  over,  the  news  may  reason- 
ably be  expected  to  have  reached  Paris  and,  in  these  latter 
days,  General  Headquarters;  and  there  has  probably  been 
more  than  one  sly  hint  in  the  personal  columns  of  the  Sun- 
day papers.  Lady  Maitland  hears  the  story  that  very  day 
at  luncheon  from  the  Duchess  of  Ross,  who  has  met  Gerald 
Deganway  the  night  before  at  the  Opera ;  he  had  been  din- 
ing with  Lady  Pentyre,  who  had  spent  the  week-end  at 
Oxford  with  the  Cutler-Blythes ;  young  Haviland  had  come 
over  to  lunch  on  Sunday  and  had  brought  the  story  from 
All  Souls'.  .  .  . 

Deganway's  name  appeared  most  regularly  in  these  lists, 
but  I  doubt  if  he  had  the  wit  to  invent  scandal ;  he  was  con- 
tent to  collect  and  hand  it  on  during  the  hours  when  his 
energies  might  have  been  more  disastrously  employed  at  the 
Foreign  Office.  It  was  from  him  that  I  first  publicly  heard 
even  a  rumour  of  Mrs.  O'Rane's  escapade ;  George  Oak- 
leigh  and  I  succeeded  in  stopping  his  mouth,  and  for  a 
few  more  precarious  weeks  Milford  Square  sank  back  to 


THE  LIMITS  OF  LOYALTY  223 

its  former  insecure  silence.  Then  the  busy  tongues  got  to 
work  again,  and  within  thirty-six  hours  I  had  heard  six 
various  accounts  in  as  many  places,  starting  with  an  early 
morning  encounter  in  Hyde  Park  with  my  niece,  who  ob- 
served triumphantly,  "Now  I  know  why  you  haven't  been 
talking  about  the  great  Sonia  O'Rane  the  last  few  months." 

"How  much  do  you  know,  Yolande?"  I  asked. 

"I  heard  yesterday  that  she'd  run  away,"  was  the  an- 
swer. "I  wasn't  told  who  with.  ...  I  can't  say  I  was 
surprised." 

At  luncheon  the  name  was  supplied,  unsupported  by  de- 
tails, however.  I  was  sitting  next  to  Lady  Pentyre,  who 
welcomed  me  with  even  greater  fervour  than  our  old  friend- 
ship warranted. 

"I've  been  longing  to  see  you !"  she  began  eagerly.  "You 
know  Mrs.  O'Rane,  don't  you?  And  you  know  Colonel 
Grayle.  Well,  is  it  true.  .  .  .  ?" 

"Is  what  true?"  I  asked,  as  she  paused  delicately. 

Her  full  question  was  inaudible,  but  I  caught  the  words 
"chere  amie." 

"Ask  someone  who  knows  them  better,"  I  suggested. 
"I've  hardly  seen  either  for  months." 

There  was  less  delicacy  about  Pebbleridge,  when  I  dined 
with  him;  less  still  about  Frank  Jellaby,  when  I  met  him 
at  the  Club.  To  the  party  organiser  moral  depravity  is  of 
interest  only  in  so  far  as  it  contributes  to  damage  a  hostile 
cause. 

"Grayle's  hardly  chosen  a  fortunate  moment  for  the 
double  event,"  he  observed  gleefully. 

I  made  it  a  rule  in  these  days  never  to  admit  knowledge 
of  the  facts  until  I  had  discovered  how  much  my  antag- 
onist knew.  The  House  of  Commons  on  this  occasion  was 
better  informed  than  Pont  Street,  the  County  Club  or  Eaton 
Place. 

"Well,  you  know,  he's  been  living — for  months,  appar- 
ently— with  Mrs.  O'Rane?  I'm  told  O'Rane  is  bringing  a 
petition.  It  will  rather  cook  Grayle's  goose,  if  this  all 
comes  out  just  when  he's  waiting  to  be  sent  for.  It'll  be  a 


224  SONIA  MARRIED 

pretty  bad  case,  from  all  accounts.  You  know  O'Rane, 
don't  you?  Well,  he  lost  his  sight  early  in  the  war,  which 
won't  get  Grayle  much  sympathy ;  and  he  was  pretty  newly 
married,  which  will  appeal  to  the  sentimental;  and  the 
whole  business  seems  to  have  been  conducted  without  any 
regard  for  human  decency.  Grayle  used  to  go  to  the  house 
as  a  friend,  have  them  to  his  house,  meet  O'Rane  in  the 
Smoking-Room.  .  .  .  If  he  goes  into  the  witness  box,  he'll 
be  broken  for  all  time,  but,  whether  he  goes  in  or  not,  he's 
dished  himself  for  the  present;  even  in  war-time  the  Non- 
conformist Conscience  wouldn't  swallow  a  scandal  of  that 
kind.  It's  a  bit  ironical,  isn't  it?  Like  Parnell  when  he'd 
got  Home  Rule  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand.  Grayle  has  done 
more  to  bring  about  this  crisis  than  any  six  other  men — 
including  Northcliff  e.  He  worked  the  Tories ;  he  could  call 
for  anything  he  liked ;  and  now  you  and  I  have  only  to  wait 
for  the  story  to  get  round  a  bit,  and  you'll  find  that  Grayle's 
duties  at  the  War  Office  are  so  important  that  he  won't  have 
time  to  attend  the  House,  let  alone  taking  a  job."  He 
laughed  jubilantly.  "Nemesis!  Nemesis!" 

"//  the  story  is  true,"  I  said.    "Where  did  you  hear  it?" 

"Oh,  everybody's  talking  about  it !  You  don't  suggest  it's 
untrue  ?" 

"I  agree  that  everybody's  talking  about  it,  though  that 
by  itself  doesn't  make  it  true.  Indeed,  I've  heard  so  many 
versions  that  I'm  beginning  to  get  confused.  You  say  that 
O'Rane  is  bringing  a  petition?  That's  quite  well-estab- 
lished? If  so,  this  is  the  most  convincing  version  that  I've 
heard  since  lunch,  because  I  don't  suppose  he  would  act  on 
mere  suspicion." 

Jellaby  looked  up  to  the  ceiling  and  pinched  his  chin 
thoughtfully  between  thumb  and  finger. 

"I  can  give  you  my  authority,  I  think.  I  was  talking  to 
several  of  the  Lobby  correspondents — it  was  that  little  man 
Palfrey,  the  fellow  from  the  'Night  Gazette.'  He  told  me 
that  Grayle  had  been  sent  for  all  right,  but  not  to  be 
sounded  for  an  office.  This  story  was  going  about,  and 
they  wanted  to  know  if  it  was  true.  I  don't  know  where 


THE  LIMITS  OF  LOYALTY          225 

Palfrey  got  his  facts  from,  but  he's  usually  very  well  in- 
formed. He  told  me  quite  definitely  that  O'Rane  was  ap- 
plying for  a  divorce." 

I  hardly  knew  whether  to  be  surprised  or  not.  When 
I  last  saw  O'Rane  he  did  not  seem  to  have  made  up  his  own 
mind.  At  first  he  had  told  us  unmistakably  that  he  would 
be  driven  to  bring  the  marriage  to  an  end,  unless  his  wife 
and  Grayle  separated;  later,  when  she  was  for  a  moment 
once  more  in  his  house,  he  forgot  to  threaten  and  expended 
himself  in  pleading,  with  an  appeal  to  Grayle  which  I 
should  have  been  unable  to  resist,  if  I  had  been  in  his 
place.  Her  voice  and  bodily  presence,  the  memories  of  the 
few  weeks  when  they  had  lived  together  there  seemed  to 
have  killed  any  feeling  of  resentment  and  of  personal  in- 
terest; O'Rane  was  begging  the  two  of  them  to  spare  him 
the  necessity  of  an  extreme  step.  He  did  not  convince 
them,  but,  when  I  left,  I  was  not  sure  that  he  had  not  con- 
vinced himself. 

Jellaby  was  about  to  leave  me,  when  I  called  him  back. 

"I  want  to  ask  a  favour  of  you,"  I  said.  "Don't  make 
party  capital  out  of  this — yet  awhile,  at  least.  I  know  all 
these  people;  and  I  should  like  you  to  hold  your  hand  for 
the  present.  If  the  story's  true,  if  the  case  comes  into 
court,  it's  public  property  for  the  world  to  discuss.  But, 
until  then,  don't  spread  a  story  which  may  not  be  true  and, 
true  or  not,  must  be  tolerably  unpleasant  for  young 
O'Rane." 

"But  I'm  not  spreading  it !"  Jellaby  protested.  "Every- 
body seems  to  have  heard  of  it  except  you." 

"Everyone's  heard  of  it  at  about  fifteenth  hand.  Whether 
it's  true  or  not  is  very  simply  tested  by  events.  O'Rane's 
not  likely  to  let  his  wife  go  on  living  with  Grayle,  if  that's 
what  she's  doing  now ;  if  he  takes  action,  you'll  know  your 
story's  true ;  if  he  doesn't — well,  for  pity's  sake  don't  even 
repeat  such  charges  against  a  perfectly  innocent  woman." 

The  epithet  made  Jellaby  wag  his  head  at  me  very  know- 
ingly. 


226  SONIA  MARRIED 

"There's  no  smoke  without  fire,  you  know,  Stornaway," 
he  said. 

I  cannot  deal  with  debilitated  minds  which  employ  prov- 
erbs in  place  of  arguments;  Jellaby  remained  unanswered. 

I  had  hardly  got  rid  of  him  and  ordered  myself  a  glass 
of  port  wine,  when  a  page-boy  brought  me  a  card  and 
stated  that  Sir  Roger  Dainton  was  waiting  in  the  hall  and 
would  like  to  see  me  for  a  moment.  Now,  I  had  been  on 
nodding  terms  with  Dainton  a  dozen  years  in  and  out  of 
the  House,  but  we  had  never  attained  greater  intimacy,  as 
I  am  temperamentally  unable  to  suffer  bores  gladly.  A  call 
from  such  a  man  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  could  mean 
only  one  thing. 

"Ask  him,  with  my  compliments,  if  he  will  join  me  in  a 
glass  of  wine,"  I  said. 

Under  his  usual  garb  of  awkward  diffidence  and  universal 
apology,  I  could  see  that  my  visitor  was  perplexed  and  wor- 
ried. For  several  moments  I  entirely  failed  to  check  his 
flow  of  regret  at  disturbing  my  dinner ;  when  I  silenced  him 
with  three  interruptions  and  as  many  invitations  to  taste  his 
wine  and  try  some  of  my  nuts,  he  planted  his  elbows  im- 
pressively on  the  table,  leaned  forward,  opened  his  lips  and 
then  flung  himself  back  and  swept  our  corner  of  the  Coffee- 
Room  for  eavesdroppers. 

"I  hope  there's  nothing  wrong,"  I  said. 

He  planted  his  elbows  in  position  a  second  time  and 
abruptly  covered  his  face  with  his  haads. 

"It's — incredible,"  he  began.  "My  little  girl — Sonia,  you 
know  Sonia  ?  Have  you  heard  about  it  ?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  referring  to  yet,"  I  pointed 
out. 

"Sonia's  run  away  from  her  husband !"  he  whispered  un- 
comprehendingly.  "She's  gone  off  with  another  man.  They 
say — they  say  David's  going  to  divorce  her." 

He  lowered  his  hands,  and  the  round,  child's  eyes,  har- 
monising perfectly  with  the  chubby,  boyish  face,  were  as 
full  of  horror  and  incredulity  as  his  voice  had  been.  I 
knew,  of  course,  that  Dainton  had  lost  his  elder  son  in  the 


THE  LIMITS  OF  LOYALTY  227 

first  year  of  the  war  and  I  believe  that  the  younger  had 
been  wounded  at  least  twice;  this  was  the  first  time,  how- 
ever, that  he  had  been  flung  against  the  sharp  rocks  of  life, 
and  he  was  as  helplessly  and  bewilderedly  scared  and  re- 
sentful as  a  child  who  has  fallen  among  the  breakers  on  a 
rugged  coast. 

"You  had  better  tell  me  all  about  it,"  I  said. 

His  stammering,  self-interrupted  narrative  added  nothing 
to  the  three  sentences  which  he  had  already  spoken.  The 
blow  had  fallen  that  day  at  luncheon.  Dainton  found  him- 
self one  of  a  large  party  which  was  for  the  most  part  un- 
known to  him.  Half-way  through  the  meal  he  caught  the 
sound  of  his  daughter's  name  with  some  comment  which 
would  have  been  grotesque,  if  it  had  not  been  uttered  with 
so  much  assurance.  There  followed  the  silence  which 
drives  home  to  a  speaker  that  he  has  said  something  un- 
pardonable and  that  he  alone  is  unaware  what  it  is.  Dain- 
ton's  neighbours  rallied  simultaneously  and  doused  him 
with  two  conflicting  jets  of  conversation,  only  to  find  that 
he  was  not  listening  and  that,  when  they  paused,  he  asked 
in  an  amazed  whisper  whether  they  had  heard  what  was 
said. 

"I  may  not  have  caught  it  right,"  he  explained  hopefully. 

But  both  denied  that  they  had  heard  the  words  in  ques- 
tion. 

When  luncheon  was  over,  an  unknown  woman  with  a 
scarlet  face  came  up  to  him  and  apologised  with  tears  in 
her  eyes.  What  he  must  think.  .  .  .  She  wouldn't  have  done 
such  a  thing  for  the  world.  .  .  .  Really  it  was  partly  their 
hostess's  fault  for  not  introducing  them  properly.  Hon- 
estly, she  had  no  idea  .  .  . 

"I  asked  her  to  say  it  again,"  Dainton  told  me  dully.  "It 
was  the  very  first  I'd  heard,  the  first  I'd  suspected.  ...  I 
can't  believe  it  now — not  Sonia.  .  .  .  She — she  said  it  was 
only  a  rumour,  she  couldn't  vouch  for  it,  but  there  was  a 
report  that  David  was  going  to  .  .  ." 

He  paused  to  raise  his  glass,  spilling  the  wine  generously. 
"I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  I  couldn't  go  about  asking  every 


228  SONIA  MARRIED 

Tom,  Dick  and  Harry  whether  my  daughter —  When  I  got 
away  from  the  office  to-night,  I  went  round  to  her  house  to 
see  if  I  could  find  out  anything  from  Oakleigh  or  George — 
I  could  talk  to  them  fairly  freely.  ...  I  remember  my  wife 
told  me,  I  forget  when  it  was,  that  Sonia  was  away  and  that 
George  had  moved  in  there  to  look  after  his  uncle ;  neither 
of  us  ever  dreamed  then  .  .  .  They  were  both  out,  so  I 
thought  I'd  come  and  bother  you.  I  knew  you  were  pretty 
intimate  with  them.  I — quite  frankly  I  want  you  to  tell 
me  if  what  that  woman  said  was  true." 

I  did  not  find  it  easy  to  face  Dainton's  troubled,  boyish 
eyes. 

"I'm  afraid  it  is,"  I  said.  "She's  left  O'Rane,  she  did 
go  off  with  another  man.  I'm  sorry  to  say  that  your  lunch- 
eon-party wasn't  the  only  place  where  it  was  being  dis- 
cussed, and  several  people  have  told  me  that  the  petition's 
actually  been  filed." 

Dainton  picked  up  a  pair  of  nut-crackers  and  twisted 
them  nervously  open  and  shut. 

"This  will  kill  Catherine,"  he  muttered.  "We've  both 
of  us  always  been  so  proud  of  her,  she  was  always  so  won- 
derful, even  when  she  was  a  little  child.  .  .  .  Stornaway,  is 
this  true?  Is  there  no  doubt  of  any  kind?  You  don't  know 
what  she  is  to  us !"  he  cried  fiercely,  as  though  I  had  been 
responsible  for  the  shipwreck  of  their  pride. 

"There  seems  to  be  no  doubt  at  all." 

"I  wonder  if  I  may  have  another  glass  of  wine,"  he  said 
absently.  "I'm  afraid  I've  spilt  most  of  this." 

We  must  have  sat  for  another  hour  in  the  deserted  Cof- 
fee-Room, now  silent  as  Dainton  yielded  inch  by  reluctant 
inch  to  the  slow  penetration  of  inevitable  truth,  now  dis- 
cussing explanations  and  canvassing  expedients  for  retriev- 
ing a  lost  position.  Beyond  giving  Grayle's  name  and  men- 
tioning that  I  had  been  present  when  an  attempt  was  made 
to  obviate  divorce  proceedings,  I  volunteered  no  details  and 
did  my  best  to  give  patient  hearing  to  schemes  which  the 
rest  of  us  had  either  rejected  already  or  refused  to  con- 
sider. He  would  force  Sonia  to  return  to  her  husband, 


THE  LIMITS  OF  LOYALTY  229 

force  O'Rane  to  take  her  back,  force  Grayle  to  give  her 
up.  ... 

"There's  no  kind  of  force  you  can  use,"  I  had  to  tell 
him.  "We've  tried  argument  and  entreaty,  and  that's 
failed." 

"Her  mother  can  make  her !" 

"No  one  can  make  her!" 

Dainton  looked  at  me  as  though  I  had  contrived  the 
catastrophe  and  were  pluming  myself  on  its  completeness. 

"But  do  you  mean  we've  got  to  stand  by  and  see  our 
Sonia  in  the  Divorce  Court,  to  have  her  examined  and 
cross-examined — our  own  child,  with  reporters  scribbling  it 
all  down  and  everybody  reading  about  it  next  day  in  the 
papers?  It's  unthinkable,  Stornaway,  it's  unthinkable!" 

"Tell  me  any  way  of  avoiding  it,  and  you  may  count  on 
any  help  I  can  give  you.  By  all  means  see  her  yourself  or 
get  Lady  Dainton  to  see  her.  Of  course,  assuming  that 
O'Rane  has  started  proceedings,  I  don't  know  that  you'll 
stop  him.  He's  behaved  with  the  greatest  love  and  loy- 
alty, and,  if  I  may  say  so,  your  daughter  exceeded  them 
when  she  went  back  with  Grayle  after  we'd  tried  to  per- 
suade her.  But  get  Lady  Dainton  to  see  her.  It  can  do 
no  harm,  but  I  advise  you  not  to  build  too  great  hopes  on 
it.  Your  daughter's  last  words,  pretty  well,  were  that  she'd 
thought  it  all  over  beforehand  and  was  prepared  to  face 
everything.  Conceivable  she  may  be  frightened  when  she's 
taken  at  her  word,  but  I'm  inclined  to  think  it  will  only 
make  her  set  her  teeth  the  harder." 

Dainton  looked  at  me  dazedly,  as  though  his  mind  had 
lagged  a  sentence  and  a  half  behind  everything  that  I 
was  saying  and  he  were  trying  to  overtake  me.  With 
marked  indecision  he  raised  his  glass,  lowered  it,  raised  it 
again  and  gulped  down  the  last  mouthful  of  wine.  Then 
he  rose  to  his  feet  and  beckoned  me  to  do  the  same. 

"There's  not  a  moment  to  lose,"  he  said  gravely.  "I'm 
going  round  to  see  Sonia  at  once.  If  you'll  shew  me  where 
the  telephone  is " 

I  led  him  to  one  of  the  boxes  by  the  porter's  office  and 


230  SONIA  MARRIED 

dawdled  in  front  of  the  tape-machine  while  he  searched 
for  Grayle's  number  and  awaited  his  call.  There  was  little 
news,  but  numerous  prophets  were  helping  the  new  Prime 
Minister  with  a  wealth  of  conflicting  suggestions  to  con- 
struct his  cabinet.  I  had  not  succeeded  in  finding  Grayle's 
name  mentioned  more  than  once  when  Dainton  emerged 
and  led  me  to  a  sofa. 

"She's  not  in,"  he  said.  "I  don't  quite  know  what  to 
do.  I  must  tell  my  wife  at  the  earliest  possible  moment.  .  .  . 
My  God,  if  she  came  up  here  and  had  it  broken  to  her  as 
I  did  to-day.  ...  I  should  like  to  catch  the  11.10  to-night 
.  .  .  and  I  could  go  and  see  David  to-morrow.  Poor  boy! 
I'm  not  blaming  him,  but  he  can't  understand  what  he's  do- 
ing, what  this  means  to  us — Sonia!  If  only  I  knew  about 
it!  .  .  ."  He  turned  to  lay  his  hand  timidly  on  my  knee. 
"She  seemed  very  determined,  when  you  saw  her?" 

"Immovable,"  I  answered. 

"You  think  she'd  disregard  her  own  father  and  mother? 
Stornaway,  you  don't  know  what  she  is  to  us !" 

His  voice  gave  me  the  answer,  but  I  saw  no  way  of 
bringing  home  to  him  that  he  and  his  wife  were  less  than 
nothing  to  her  at  this  moment. 

"You  can  only  try,"  I  said.  "I've  seen  her  at  The  Sanc- 
tuary' with  O'Rane  and  Grayle,  I've  seen  her  in  Milford 
Square  by  herself " 

He  looked  at  his  watch  and  turned  to  me  excitedly. 

"Look  here,  I  can't  be  in  two  places  at  once  and  I  must 
get  down  to  my  wife.  Will  you — I've  no  claim  on  you;  I 
ask  it,  because  I  can't  help  myself — will  you  go  to  Sonia. 
insist  on  seeing  her,  tell  her  of  our  meeting  to-night  and 
beg  her — in  her  mother's  name — and  mine " 

His  faltering  sentences  lagged  and  halted  until  they 
stopped  altogether. 

"If  you  wish  me  to,"  I  said. 

"I  can  never  thank  you  enough !  I  pray  you'll  never  be  in 
a  similar  position,  but  if  you  are — — " 

"Don't  build  extravagant  hopes  on  it,"  I  warned  him 
again. 


THE  LIMITS  OF  LOYALTY          231 

When  I  had  seen  him  into  a  taxi,  I  drove  to  Milford 
Square  with  profound  and  momentarily  increasing  distaste 
for  my  mission.  I  felt  instinctively  that  it  was  foredoomed 
to  failure;  I  knew  that,  two  hours  after  I  had  failed,  the 
Daintons  would  be  staring  blankly  at  each  other  or  pacing 
nervously  up  and  down  the  room,  refusing — despite  my  re- 
peated warning — to  abandon  hope  until  my  failure  had  been 
confessed.  And  I  knew  that  I  must  see  Mrs.  O'Rane  alone 
— which  Grayle  would  try  to  prevent — and  make  an  emo- 
tional appeal — which  I  was  ill-equipped  for  doing.  .  .  . 

My  taxi  drew  up  at  the  door.  I  rang  and  enquired  of  my 
old,  smooth-faced  antagonist  whether  Mrs.  O'Rane  was  at 
home.  I  was  told  that  she  was  not. 

"Then  I'll  wait  for  her,"  I  said,  squeezing  past  him  into 
the  hall  and  taking  off  my  coat  and  gloves.  "Is  Colonel 
Grayle  in?" 

"Not  yet,  sir ;  Mr.  Bannerman's  in  the  smoking-room." 

"I  should  like  to  see  him,"  I  said,  "if  he's  not  engaged." 

Guy  dragged  himself  out  of  an  arm-chair  with  a  mixture 
of  surprise  and  distrust. 

"Hullo!  what  brings  you  here?"  he  enquired.  "I  never 
expected  to  see  you." 

"Well,  I  never  expected  to  see  you,"  I  answered.  "I 
thought  you'd  been  banished." 

He  looked  at  me  with  cautious  absence  of  expression 
and  then  applied  himself  to  treading  a  little  mound  of  cigar- 
ash  into  the  carpet. 

"Grayle  ought  to  be  in  soon,"  he  voluntered.  "He  said 
he  wouldn't  be  late." 

"It  was  Mrs.  O'Rane  I  came  to  see." 

Guy  looked  at  me  closely  and  raised  his  eyebrows  slightly. 
Then  he  buried  the  lower  half  of  his  face  in  a  tumbler 
of  whiskey  and  soda,  glanced  at  me  again  over  the  brim, 
swallowed  and  set  the  glass  down  empty. 

"What  d'you  want  with  her,  if  I  may  ask?"  he  en- 
quired. 

Guy  has  a  dual  personality  compounded  of  loyalty  to  his 
master  and  love  for  humanity  at  large.  The  combination 


232  SONIA  MARRIED 

is  not  an  easy  one  to  imagine,  but  he  contrived  at  once  to 
blend  the  qualities  and  yet  keep  them  distinct.  I  told  him 
frankly  and  fully  of  my  conversation  with  Dainton. 

"I  warned  him  that  he  was  sending  me  on  a  fool's  er- 
rand," I  said.  "But  how  could  I  refuse?  I'd  submit  to 
being  sent  on  a  dozen  fool's  errands  each  day,  if  I  thought 
I  could  spare  him — and  his  wife — and  O'Rane — and  his 
wife " 

Guy  raised  his  hand  to  interrupt  me. 

"Look  here,  how  much  do  you  know?"  he  asked,  as  I 
had  been  asking  every  second  person  that  day.  "Not  the 
early  part ;  what  I  mean  is,  are  you  up  to  date  ?" 

"Two  or  three  people  have  told  me  that  O 'Kane's  actually 
filed  his  petition,"  I  said.  "Is  that  true?" 

"I  don't  know.    Is  that  all  you  know?" 

"My  dear  Guy,  the  whole  of  London's  discussing  the 
thing,  I've  heard  an  approach  to  the  truth  and  most  kinds 
of  variants." 

"But  is  that  all  you  know  ?"  he  repeated. 

"I  imagine  so,"  I  answered. 

Guy  shrugged  his  shoulders  helplessly. 

"Then  you're  not  up  to  date,"  he  said.  "I  got  Dainton's 
enquiry  on  the  telephone  and  I  told  him  that  she  wasn't 
in.  It  was  true — as  far  as  it  went.  She's  gone,  Storn- 
away.  I've  not  the  faintest  idea  what  happened,  but  there 
was — a  big  row  of  some  kind — not  the  first  by  any  means, 
I  may  tell  you, — and  she  walked  out  of  the  house." 

"But  where's  she  gone  to  ?"  I  asked,  as  soon  as  I  was  suf- 
ficiently recovered  from  my  surprise  to  ask  anything. 

"I've  no  idea,"  he  answered. 


I  wanted  to  ask  so  many  questions  that  I  hardly  knew 
where  to  begin,  but  Guy — with  the  best  possible  intentions — 
was  not  in  a  position  to  tell  me  anything  worth  hearing. 
Mrs.  O'Rane,  at  the  end  of  an  hour-long  altercation  behind 
closed  doors,  had  come  into  the  hall  with  a  pearly-white 


THE  LIMITS  OF  LOYALTY          233 

face,  collected  a  fur-coat  and  umbrella  and  walked  into  the 
Square. 

"She  stopped  for  a  moment  on  the  top  step  and  un- 
fastened her  latch-key — she  used  to  carry  it  tied  to  her  bag 
with  a  bit  of  ribbon ; — I  found  it  in  my  hand  the  next  mo- 
ment, and  she  was  saying  good-bye  and  telling  me  quite 
casually  that  she  wasn't  coming  back.  Grayle — he  didn't 
even  trouble  to  come  out  of  the  smoking-room.  What  it 
was  about  I  can't  say,  but  they  must  have  had  an  unholy 
row."  Guy  looked  at  me  dubiously,  weighing  my  discre- 
tion. "I  suppose,  now  that  it's  all  over,  there's  no  harm 
in  saying  that  rows  were  the  rule  rather  than  the  exception. 
.  .  .  Right  from  the  earliest  days,  when  she  used  to  come 
and  dine  here  or  he  took  her  out.  I  don't  know  how  either 
thought  they  could  possibly  live  in  the  same  house.  Of 
course,  she  fascinated  him,"  he  conceded  with  the  gusto  of 
a  Promenade  habitue,  "but  she  never  cared  for  him.  I'm 
as  certain  of  that  as  I  am  of  my  own  existence.  She's  a 
curious  woman ;  it  used  to  make  me  go  hot  and  cold  some- 
times to  see  and  hear  Grayle  with  her — he  was  cruel, — but, 
the  more  he  bullied  her,  the  more  she  respected  him.  If 
he  shewed  her  the  sort  of  deference  a  man  does  shew  a 
woman,  he  seemed  to  lose  his  grip.  I  don't  know  how  much 
you  saw  of  them  before  she  came  here,  but  she  was  playing 
cat  and  mouse  with  Grayle.  Or  trying  to.  He  soon  put  a 
stop  to  that.  He's  had  a  good  many  ordinary  affaires,  but 
he  was  really  fond  of  this  woman,  and,  when  he  found  that 
O'Rane  was  openly  living  with  someone  else " 

"That's  well-established,  is  it?"  I  interrupted. 

"I  believe  so.  Well,  he  naturally  wanted  to  protect  Mrs. 
O'Rane.  She  treated  it  as  a  joke,  until  he  swore  he'd  never 
see  her  again.  (He  was  always  saying  it,  but  this  time  he 
meant  it.)  Then  she  got  frightened.  First  she  rang  up, — 
and  he  ignored  her;  she  wrote, — and  he  didn't  answer  her 
letters ;  called, — and  he  refused  to  see  her.  The  next  thing 
was  complete  surrender."  Guy  Bannerman  spread  out  his 
hands  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "You  can't  compound  a 
common  life  of  that  sort  of  storm  and  sunshine.  Grayle 


'234  SONIA  MARRIED 

found  that,  if  he  wanted  to  get  his  way, — well,  he  didn't 
actually  take  a  stick  to  her,  but  it  was  the  next  best  thing." 

Guy  paused  to  sigh  in  perplexity,  trying  vainly  to  rec- 
oncile his  idol's  behaviour  with  his  own  romantic  canons 
of  chivalry. 

"Go  on/'  I  said. 

"Well,  he  was  gradually  breaking  her  spirit,  killing  all 
her  charm;  and  then  I  really  think  that  he  began  to  get 
tired  of  her.  They  were  wearing  each  other  out,  and  you 
couldn't  expect  her  to  be  mewed  up  inside  the  house,  and 
people  were  beginning  to  talk.  ...  I've  told  you  pretty  well 
all  I  know." 

I  digested  Guy's  story  in  silence  until  I  heard  the  jingle 
of  a  hansom  cab  outside,  followed  by  a  word  or  two  in 
Grayle's  voice.  A  moment  later  he  was  standing  in  the 
dgDr-way,  scowling  in  surprise  at  seeing  me  there. 

"Hast  thou  found  me,  oh  mine  enemy?"  he  sneered.  "I 
seem  to  remember  your  giving  it  as  your  considered  opinion 
that  you  never  wanted  to  see  me  or  speak  to  me  again. 
I'm  honoured  by  your  visit,  of  course,  but  you  can — just — 
clear— out!" 

He  pushed  the  door  open  to  its  widest  extent  and  stood 
aside  as  though  nothing  would  give  him  greater  pleasure 
than  to  assist  my  departure  with  a  kick.  In  his  present 
mood  he  would  have  done  it  without  much  further  provoca- 
tion, but  I  am  no  more  of  a  physical  coward  than  my  neigh- 
bour and  I  was  .not  going  to  let  him  threaten  me. 

"I  came  to  see  Mrs.  O'Rane,"  I  told  him  without  getting 
up. 

"Well,  no  doubt  Bannerman's  informed  you  that  she's  not 
here." 

"I  want  to  know  where  she  is.  I  may  mention  that  I've 
seen  her  father  to-night.  He'd  heard  nothing  till  lunch- 
time  to-day,  and,  though  it's  no  affair  of  his,  I  thought 
he  was  rather  upset.  He's  gone  down  to  Hampshire  to 
break  the  news  to  his  wife,  and  I  promised  to  see  if  I 
could  arrange  a  meeting  with  his  daughter." 


THE  LIMITS  OF  LOYALTY  235 

Grayle  walked  to  the  sofa,  picked  up  my  coat  and  tossed 
it  to  me. 

"I  don't  know  where  she  is,"  he  said  shortly.  "And  I 
don't  care." 

My  hat  followed  the  coat  through  the  air  and  dropped 
on  to  my  knees. 

"Dainton  wants  to  stop  the  divorce,"  I  said.  "That  must 
have  a  certain  academic  interest  for  you,  Grayle.  He's  see- 
ing O'Rane  to-morrow  morning." 

I  looked  in  vain  for  any  sign  of  pleasure,  relief  or  con- 
cern. 

"I  tell  you,  I  don't  know  where  she  is,"  he  repeated. 
"She  left  this  place  to-day — and — she's — not  coming — 
back." 

"You  mean  you  turned  her  out,"  I  suggested. 

"Oh,  I'm  sick  of  this!"  He  limped  to  my  chair  and 
caught  my  wrist  in  one  hand,  bending  it  back  until  I  had 
to  get  up  to  prevent  his  breaking  my  arm  off  at  the  elbow. 
"As  a  matter  of  courtesy  I  told  you  she'd  gone,  and  the  best 
thing  you  can  do  is  to  follow  her.  You've  found  time  to 
meddle  with  my  affairs  for  a  good  many  months,  but  I'm. 
tired  of  it  now;  it's  got  to  end.  I  give  you  fair  warning, 
Stornaway,  that  I  am  instructing  my  servants  not  to  admit 
you,  if  you  come  here  again;  and,  by  God!  if  you  try  to 
force  your  way  in,  I'll  thrash  you  out  with  a  crop.  Now — 
march!" 

My  exit  was  painless,  though  I  will  not  pretend  that  it 
was  dignified.  I  walked  a  few  yards  along  the  Brompton 
Road,  wondering  what  to  do  next.  It  was  futile  to  specu- 
late where  Mrs.  O'Rane  was  gone ;  she  could  not  return  to 
"The  Sanctuary,"  she  could  not  go  home  to  her  parents; 
after  abandoning  her  husband  and  being  abandoned  by  her 
lover  within  six  months,  she  could  hardly — with  her  pride 
and  temper — ask  a  friend  to  take  her  in.  Any  grandeur 
with  which  she  had  tried  to  invest  her  recklessness  and  in- 
fidelity at  our  last  meeting  was  sorely  draggled.  And  she 
was  about  thirty — a  year  or  two  more,  a  year  or  two  less — 
in  the  full  bloom  and  beauty  of  her  life,  with  some  hun- 


236  SONIA  MARRIED 

dreds  from  her  father  to  pay  her  hotel  bills,  debarred  by 
the  war  even  from  hiding  herself  for  a  few  months  abroad. 
I  stood  still  to  wonder  where  she  was  at  that  moment,  how 
she  was  facing  the  future. 

Then  I  turned  down  Sloane  Street  and  made  for  the 
Underground  station.  I  had  meant  to  go  home  and,  per- 
haps, to  telephone  to  Dainton,  but  it  could  do  no  good,  and 
I  wanted  to  hold  a  council  of  war  with  the  Oakleighs.  In 
Sloane  Square  I  met  Beresford  hobbling  along  on  a  stick 
and  made  him  turn  round  and  keep  me  company.  In  some 
way  I  felt  that  he  deserved  to  be  present.  Bertrand  was 
in  bed  when  we  reached  "The  Sanctuary,"  but  I  found 
George  reading  a  book  with  his  feet  up  on  a  sofa,  and, 
when  I  told  him  that  my  business  was  urgent,  we  adjourned 
upstairs  to  the  scene  of  more  than  one  early  morning  ses- 
sion. I  told  them  as  shortly  as  I  could  of  my  interviews 
with  Dainton,  Bannerman  and  Grayle  and  left  the  facts  to 
sink  in.  The  ensuing  silence  was  broken  by  Beresford, 
speaking  more  to  himself  than  to  the  room. 

"The  cad!"  he  muttered.  "Oh,  my  God!  the  cad!  And 
you  don't  know  where  she  is  now?" 

"No.    I've  given  you  all  the  facts." 

After  the  one  outburst  Beresford  remained  quiet,  and  the 
other  three  of  us  started  a  rambling  debate  to  decide  what 
we  wanted  done  and  what  was  practicable.  Bertrand  acted 
as  chairman  and  put  the  questions.  We  agreed  that  for  the 
sake  of  O'Rane  and  the  Daintons  the  proceedings  should  be 
stopped,  if  possible;  it  was  established  that  Mrs.  O'Rane 
and  Grayle  were  unlikely  to  meet  again,  and,  if  we  could  get 
back  to  the  terms  discussed  a  few  weeks  earlier,  it  was  still 
conceivable  that  the  scandal  might  be  suppressed. 

"But  O'Rane  doesn't  know  they've  parted,"  I  reminded 
Bertrand.  "Someone  must  tell  him.  I'll  go  down,  if  neces- 
sary, as  I  had  the  news  at  first-hand.  Of  course,  if  he 
refuses  and  says  they  had  their  chance  and  missed  it " 

"He  won't  refuse,"  said  Bertrand.  "You'll  go  ?  I  believe 
we  can  stop  it  even  now.  He's  not  particularly  vindictive — 
he  shewed  that  the  other  night — and  he'd  sooner  spare  his 


THE  LIMITS  OF  LOYALTY          237 

wife  than  punish  Grayle."  He  grimaced  with  disfavour. 
"Stornaway,  I've  never  liked  that  man,  but  I  didn't  think 
he  was  capable  of  this." 

"Nor  did  she,  poor  soul!" 

We  had  reached  our  decision,  and,  if  I  had  to  leave  for 
the  country  by  an  early  train,  I  wanted  to  get  home  to  bed. 
George  and  his  uncle  were  chewing  the  cud  of  my  story, 
and  I  saw  no  end  to  that.  I  was  putting  on  my  coat,  when 
Beresford  begged  me  to  stay  a  moment  longer. 

"You're  not  leaving  it  at  this,  are  you  ?"  he  asked,  with  a 
white  face. 

"Have  you  anything  to  suggest  ?"  I  asked. 

"You're  going  to  let  Grayle  ride  off?  Merciful  Christ! 
And  I  thought  some  of  you  were  Sonia's  friends !" 

He  struggled  to  his  feet  and  in  another  moment,  bumping 
past  me,  was  half-way  to  the  door.  George  sprang  from 
his  chair  and  had  one  foot  planted  solidly  in  the  way  be- 
fore Beresford  could  reach  the  handle. 

"Here,  where  are  you  off  to?"  he  demanded. 

"Something's  got  to  be  done  about  Grayle,"  was  the  reply. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  asked,  for  Beresford  had  the 
voice,  the  eyes  and  the  bearing  of  homicidal  mania. 

"I'm  going  to  have  a  word  with  him,"  he  answered  be- 
tween clenched  teeth.  "Let  me  go!" 

There  was  something  pitifully  incongruous  between  the 
purposeful  language  and  the  emaciated,  consumptive  speak- 
er. Grayle,  for  all  his  unsound  leg,  could  pluck  him  up  by 
the  ankles  and  crush  in  his  head  against  the  wall  like  the 
shell  of  an  egg. 

"Let's  hear  some  more  about  it  first,"  I  said,  taking  his 
arm  despite  a  quiver  and  jerk  of  protest.  "I  know  Grayle 
fairly  well,  and,  if  you're  going  to  match  yourself  against 
him  in  physical  strength,  you  might  just  as  well  try  to  knock 
holes  in  the  side  of  a  battleship  with  your  naked  fists." 

Beresford  wriggled  against  my  grip. 

"I  can  have  a  go  at  spoiling  him  first,"  he  cried.  "After 
that,  I  don't  mind  what  happens." 

Their  motives  were  different,  but  I  was  vividly  reminded 


238  SONIA  MARRIED 

of  the  Cockney  Huish  preparing  to  advance,  vitriol  jar  in 
hand,  against  the  unerring  rifle  of  Attwater.  I  looked  over 
Beresford's  head  and  lifted  my  eyebrows  at  Bertrand,  who 
raised  himself  in  bed  and  called  him  twice  by  name. 

"You  mustn't  do  anything  hasty,"  he  urged,  wagging  his 
forefinger  with  great  parade  of  reasonableness.  "Any  kind 
of  attack  on  Grayle  is  bound  to  recoil  on  Sonia,  and  that's 
the  last  thing  you  want.  I  assure  you  that  twenty-four 
hours  after  you'd  gone  for  him " 

Beresford  shook  free  of  my  arm  and  limped  menacingly 
up  to  the  bed. 

"You  don't  care  a  curse  for  her,"  he  cried,  "but  you  pre- 
tend to  care  for  O'Rane.  You're  going  to  let  Grayle  break 
up  O'Rane's  life,  take  away  Sonia  from  him,  throw  her 
out  of  doors " 

Bertrand  spread  out  his  hands  with  a  gesture  of  bland 
expostulation. 

"My  dear  boy,  we  can't  prevent  it.  It's  done,  and  any 
act  of  private  vengeance  will  hit  David  and  Sonia  hardest 
of  all.  Haven't  we  been  scheming  and  contriving  to  pre- 
vent the  divorce  for  that  very  reason?  We  all  know  that 
it  would  dish  Grayle's  political  career  to  be  cited  as  a  co- 
respondent at  the  present  time;  it  would  keep  him  out  of 
the  Cabinet  or  compel  him  to  resign.  But  I  can  tell  you 
that  it  would  dish  the  O'Ranes  very  much  more  completely. 
Dear  boy,  when  we're  hoping  to  close  down  one  scandal, 
for  Heaven's  sake  don't  open  up  another." 

If  not  impressed,  Beresford  was  at  least  interested  and 
temporarily  checked.  He  stood  reflecting  with  a  scowl  on 
his  face  and  his  underlip  thrust  forward. 

"Is  that — brute  going  to  be  taken  into  the  Government  ?" 
he  asked. 

"According  to  the  papers  there's  every  possibility,"  Ber- 
trand answered.  "No  one  will  ever  know,  but  I  choose  to 
believe  that  he  tired  of  Sonia  from  the  moment  when  his 
plans  were  threatened  by  the  possibility  of  a  scandal." 

Beresford  looked  at  him  wonderingly  and  then  turned 
to  me. 


THE  LIMITS  OF  LOYALTY  239 

"Do  you  bear  that  out  ?"  he  asked.  "I  don't  know  enough 
of  public  life  to  say  if  it's  true.  Do  you  mean  that,  if  Grayle 
went  into  the  Divorce  Court,  he'd  be  broken  ?" 

The  eagerness  of  his  tone  frightened  us  a  little,  for  we 
thought  that  we  had  talked  him  out  of  danger.  Bertrand 
assumed  great  determination  of  manner. 

"Grayle's  not  going  into  the  Divorce  Court,  if  we  can 
help  it,"  he  said. 

"Grayle's  going  to  be  broken,  if  I  can  work  it,"  was  the 
retort. 

"But  you  can't.  No  one  would  support  you  more  readily, 
if  it  were  possible." 

Beresford  dropped  into  his  former  chair  without  an- 
swering and  propped  his  chin  'on  his  fists.  Bertrand 
watched  him  uneasily;  George  came  back  from  the  door 
and  led  me  away  to  the  window.  Tentatively  he  asked  me 
how  far  I  thought  the  threat  of  proceedings  could  be  used 
to  block  Grayle's  path  of  office. 

"I  don't  know  how  far  you  can  blackmail  a  man,"  George 
admitted.  "Particularly  a  man  like  Grayle.  It's  only  an 
idea,  I've  just  thought  of  it.  If  we  could  make  him  sign 
an  undertaking — something  that  we  could  use  against  him 
and  that  he^  couldn't  turn  and  use  against  us.  It  all  wants 
the  devil  of  a  lot  of  thinking  out.  ...  If  Raney  doesn't  di- 
vorce Sonia  now,  when  the  offence  is  still  fresh,  I  suppose 
he  weakens  his  position ;  he  may  not  be  able  to  get  a  divorce 
later,  and  then  our  barrier's  kicked  to  matchwood.  I'm  not 
a  lawyer;  perhaps  Bertrand.  ..." 

We  walked  to  the  bed,  where  Bertrand  was  sitting  with 
his  eyes  on  us.  I  cannot  say  whether  my  friends  have  been 
more  unfortunate  than  the  generality,  but  one  has  bound 
himself  by  a  similar  undertaking  not  to  play  cards,  two 
more  not  to  enter  certain  cities,  and  four  or  five  to  resign 
certain  positions  and  to  live  abroad.  As  a  rule,  however, 
a  felony  was  being  compounded,  or  the  offence  was  one 
against  honour  wherein  there  was  no  statute  of  limitations. 

"It's  mere  bluff,  and  he'll  beat  you  at  that  game,"  Ber- 
trand said  without  hesitation.  "What  Grayle's  done  is  to 


24o  SONIA  MARRIED 

outrage  public  opinion,  and  the  public  has  a  short  memory. 
You  could  break  him  now,  but  in  two,  three  years'  time 
people  would  say,  'This  is  very  ancient  history,  we've  heard 
her  story,  but  not  his ;  probably  he  wasn't  so  much  to  blame 
as  she  makes  out;  she  couldn't  live  with  one  man,  so  it's 
conceivable  that  she  couldn't  live  with  another.  But,  any- 
way, it's  ancient  history/  In  three  years'  time  your  man 
of  the  world  would  think  none  the  worse  of  him ; — and  you 
can't  tell  how  far  she  may  have  travelled  in  three  years. 
Time's  on  his  side." 

"But  this  is  the  opportunity  of  his  political  life,"  George 
persisted.  "In  three  years'  time  it  may  have  gone  beyond 
hope  of  returning." 

"But  he  knows  that  David  wouldn't  sacrifice  his  wife 
to  punish  him.  Haven't  we  talked  ourselves  hoarse  to  find 
a  way  of  stopping  the  proceedings  ?  Grayle's  a  level-headed 
fellow " 

"Hardly  at  this  moment,"  I  interrupted. 

Bertrand  looked  at  me  in  some  surprise. 

"Well,  discuss  it  with  David,"  he  said  unenthusiastically. 
"If  he  agrees,  go  to  Grayle  and  try  your  luck.  I  never 
like  brandishing  weapons  that  I'm  not  prepared  to  use.  / 
tell  you  it's  an  empty  threat  and  that  Grayle  will  see  through 
it.  You  know,  you're  all  carried  away  by  some  idea  of  poetic 
justice,  you  think  you've  got  a  pocket  retribution  packed 
up  and  ready  for  him ;  you  imagine  that  people  are  punished 
for  their  crimes  in  this  world.  I've  outgrown  that  phase." 

The  superfluous  touch  of  cynicism  flicked  us  all  and  Ber- 
esford  most  of  all. 

"Somebody's  going  to  punish  that  man,"  he  cried.  "I 
don't  know  who  and  I  don't  know  how,  but  it's  going  to 
be  done.  I'll  drop  everything  else  and  sacrifice  all  I've  got 
to  it." 

Bertrand  sighed  and  lay  back  on  his  pillows. 

"Grayle's  not  worth  it,"  he  said. 

"But  Sonia  is!"  Beresford  cried  passionately. 


CHAPTER  SIX 

THE  UNWRITTEN   LAW 

'She  said,  'Be  good  with  me;  I  grow 

So  tired  for  shame's  sake,  I  shall  die 
If  you  say  nothing:'  .  .  ." 

A.  C.  SWINBURNE:    The  Leper. 


FOR  a  fugitive  from  justice  London  is  either  the  best 
hiding-place  in  the  world,  or  else  the  worst;  I  have  never 
had  an  opportunity  of  deciding,  and  Mrs.  O'Rane's  experi- 
ence has  not  helped  me. 

She  left  Milford  Square  in  the  first  week  of  December; 
in  the  middle  of  January  her  husband  and  friends  gleaned 
their  first  news  of  her.  So  both  succeeded  and  both  failed. 

She  has  told  me  that  her  first  action  after  leaving  Grayle 
was  to  enter  a  tube  station  and  to  study  a  railway  map  of 
London.  Her  knees  were  trembling  violently,  and  her  brain 
was  numbed  so  that  she  stared  at  names  without  reading 
them  until  something  inside  her  head  like  the  ticking  of  a 
watch,  now  silent,  now  intrusive,  as  her  attention  was  cap- 
tured or  left  free,  warned  her  to  concentrate  her  thoughts ; 
she  had  to  get  away,  and  time  was  being  lost,  time  was 
being  lost.  .  .  . 

The  "inner  city"  was  ex  hypothesi  closed  to  her;  Chelsea, 
Kensington  and  Hampstead  each  contained  a  sprinkling  of 
friends;  beyond  them  she  spelled  out  the  names  of  places 
on  the  outer  fringe  through  which  she  had  passed  on  her 
way  north,  west  or  south  from  London.  Willesden — you 
met  Willesden  on  your  way  to  Holyhead  or  the  west  of 
Scotland;  Wimbledon — that  was  an  old  friend,  encoun- 

241 


242  SONIA  MARRIED 

tered  every  time  that  you  went  by  the  London  and  South 
Western  to  Melton;  Croydon — surely  Croydon  lay  on  the 
way  to  Dover?  But  nobody  lived  there.  .  .  .  Certainly 
no  woman  in  her  senses  journeyed  to  Croydon  and  inex- 
plicably put  up  at  an  hotel.  What  was  one  to  do  during  the 
day?  Invent  excuses  to  get  away  from  the  hotel  between 
meals?  But  one  must  not  stray  towards  London.  For 
three  hours,  morning  and  afternoon,  one  could  walk  be- 
tween interminable  rows  of  villas .... 

Yet  why  confine  herself  to  London,  when  the  whole  of 
England  lay  before  her?  She  had  only  to  drive  to  King's 
Cross,  Euston,  Waterloo,  Paddington.  .  .  .  But  she  stood  in 
a  blouse,  skirt  and  fur-coat ;  and  all  her  other  clothes  were 
at  "The  Sanctuary"  or  in  Milford  Square.  She  could  buy 
others,  of  course,  but  her  one  prayer  was  to  avoid  meeting 
people.  They  were  talking  about  her,  they  would  stare  past 
her,  when  they  met,  or  else — worthy  souls! — warn  her  for 
her  good  that  Colonel  Grayle's  name  was  being  coupled 
with  hers, — when  he  had  flung  her  out  of  the  house!  An 
hour  before  she  had  her  speeches  ready ;  she  was  nervously 
anxious,  after  the  long  strain  of  waiting,  to  defend  herself 
and  defy  society  in  the  same  breath, — but  there  was  now 
nothing  to  defend.  She  had  bought  her  last  dress  a  fort- 
night ago  at  Worth's, — and  Grayle  had  accompanied  her  to 
the  shop.  .  .  . 

But  the  clothes  were  a  trifle — though  she  would  have  to 
start  from  the  beginning,  buy  a  portmanteau,  have  it  sent  to 
— well,  to  her  temporary  headquarters,  paying  for  her  room 
in  advance, — assuming  that  the  management  would  take 
her  in — awaiting  the  brand-new  trunk  and  the  succession 
of  parcels  and  milliners'  boxes.  There  was  not  very  much 
privacy  about  such  an  escape.  .  .  .  And,  if  you  got  your 
clothes  and  got  away,  you  were  compelled  since  the  war  to 
give  your  true  name  wherever  you  went ;  anyone  who  chose 
to  enquire  of  the  police  anywhere  .  .  .  And  you  could  not 
get  even  to  Ireland  without  a  permit.  It  was  natural 
enough,  but  hard  on  her,  when  she  was  so  bruised  and 
beaten,  when  she  wanted  so  desperately  to  hide.  .  .  . 


THE  UNWRITTEN  LAW  243 

No  weakness  or  self-pity!  Back  to  the  map,  though  it 
were  but  the  map  of  London.  All  England  might  lie 
stretched  in  a  welcoming  expanse,  but  it  was  lamentably 
true  that  one  knew  very  little  of  England.  One  had  stayed 
in  country  houses  here,  there  and  everywhere;  one  had 
gone  to  an  hotel  in  Harrogate,  an  hotel  in  Brighton,  per- 
haps three  more;  one  had  never  explored  England  like  a 
Cook's  tourist  or  a  commercial  traveller.  One's  imagina- 
tion would  not  venture  beyond  a  familiar  ring — Brighton, 
Harrogate,  Oxford  or  London. 

She  stared  at  the  map  until  a  furtive  young  man  who 
had  passed  and  repassed,  slily  trying  to  catch  sight  of  her 
face,  asked  whether  he  could  be  of  any  assistance.  The 
shock  of  being  addressed  by  a  strange  voice  and  the  need 
of  collecting  herself  to  answer  it  cleared  her  brain. 

"I  want  to  get  to — Euston,"  she  said — and  was  surprised 
by  the  ease  and  assurance  of  her  tone,  steady  and  authorita- 
tive. 

"You  change  into  the  Hampstead  Tube  at  Leicester 
Square,"  he  told  her. 

She  waited  until  he  had  turned  his  back  and  then  went 
upstairs  to  a  public  telephone  and  rang  up  Grayle's  house. 
It  was  prostitution  of  her  pride  to  communicate  with  the 
house  even  from  a  distance,  but  she  had  to  have  clothes. 
The  butler  answered  the  telephone,  and,  in  the  same  steady, 
authoritative  voice  she  asked  him  to  send  everything  to  the 
Grosvenor  Hotel.  There  was  no  difficulty  about  engaging  a 
room,  if  she  could  say  that  her  luggage  was  coming  later; 
no  difficulty  about  anything,  if  she  kept  her  head.  .  .  .  And 
then  she  could  look  round  at  her  leisure,  though  she  would 
have  to  change  her  hotel  next  day,  since  she  had  revealed 
where  she  was  going. 

The  next  thing?  Money.  She  drove  to  her  bank,  drew 
twenty  pounds  and  enquired  the  balance.  For  some  weeks 
she  could  be  easy  in  her  mind  on  the  score  of  money.  Of 
course,  if  her  father  heard  anything  and  thought  fit  to  stop 
paying  her  allowance  .  .  .  The  drive  from  the  bank  to  the 
hotel  was  the  worst  ten  minutes  of  her  life.  Hitherto  she 


244  SONIA  MARRIED 

had  only  wanted  an  asylum  where  she  could  shelter  until  she 
was  strong  enough  to  face  the  world  disdainfully ;  now  she 
knew  that  she  could  never  face  the  world  and  that  she 
must  prowl  from  one  hiding-place  to  another,  lingering  ap- 
prehensively until  she  was  identified  and  then  wearily  slink- 
ing away  into  greater  seclusion.  ...  Of  course  her  father 
would  hear,  everyone  would  hear.  And  it  would  give  such 
pleasure  to  her  enemies  when  they  saw  that  they  could 
put  her  out  of  countenance!  Everyone  had  enemies;  the 
most  popular  and  beloved  girl  of  her  acquaintance  had  been 
prosecuted  for  some  fraud  over  the  insurance  of  jewellery, 
and  a  chorus  of  jubilation  had  gone  up  from  these  smooth- 
faced, false  friends.  And,  when  she  herself  had  broken  off 
her  engagement  with  Jim  Loring,  the  vilest  things  were 
said;  she  heard  them  years  later  from  other  friends  who 
wanted  to  make  mischief.  Women  were  contemptible  crea- 
tures. And  there  would  be  a  thunder  of  exultation  at  her 
downfall.  They  hated  her  because  she  told  them  frankly 
that  women  bored  her;  they  were  jealous  because  she  was 
admittedly  one  of  the  greatest  beauties  in  London ;  for  years 
men  had  been  falling  in  love  with  her  and  begging  her  to 
marry  them ;  she  could  have  had  her  choice.  .  .  . 

And  now  she  had  been  turned  out  of  her  lover's  house! 
And  the  world  would  know  it  any  day.  Already  her  hus- 
band's solicitors  had  written  to  Grayle,  asking  for  his  solici- 
tor's name  and  address.  The  letter  had  been  on  the  Buhl 
cabinet,  and  she  had  opened  it  in  his  presence.  From  the 
very  first  she  had  always  opened  his  letters  like  that;  he 
had  enjoyed  it ;  it  had  seemed  to  bring  them  closer.  .  .  .  But 
this  time  he  was  furious.  That  was  the  first  of  the  big 
scenes  which  had  ended  with  her  leaving  the  house.  .  .  .  She 
did  not  know  when  the  case  would  be  heard,  but  the  story 
would  race  round  London ;  and  other  stories  would  be  rem- 
iniscently  tacked  on  to  it — her  two  broken  engagements  be- 
fore she  married;  it  would  be  said  that  no  man  could  en- 
dure her  for  more  than  six  months.  .  .  .  She  found  herself 
shaken  with  quivering,  dry  sobs. 

In  the  hall  of  the  hotel  a  man  bowed  to  her,  and  she 


THE  UNWRITTEN  LAW  245 

tried  not  to  see  him,  as  though  she  had  no  right  to  be  there. 
And,  when  the  room  had  been  allotted  her,  she  hurried  to 
it  and  locked  herself  in;  no  one  could  stare  at  her  there, 
no  one  could  begin  to  speak  and  then  recollect  and  break  off. 
She  looked  at  her  watch,  dreading  the  descent  to  the  dining- 
room,  though  it  was  not  yet  four  o'clock ;  and  suddenly  she 
remembered  that  she  had  promised  to  dine  with  Lord  Pen- 
tyre  and  go  to  a  play.  He  was  home  on  short  leave,  they 
had  met  at  luncheon  two  days  before,  and  she  had  chosen 
the  restaurant  and  the  theatre.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  test  case.  Since  leaving  "The  Sanctuary"  she 
had  occasionally  dined  out  with  Grayle,  occasionally  met 
him  by  chance  at  other  houses  and  often  dined  with  him  at 
home;  they  had  also  dined  separately  with  their  respective 
friends,  trying  to  reveal  no  outward  change  in  their  lives 
until  it  was  forced  upon  them.  Soon  people  would  refuse 
to  meet  her,  for,  whatever  else  the  altercation  with  Grayle 
had  made  clear,  they  were  being  of  a  sudden  universally 
discussed.  Bobbie  Pentyre  had  said  something  about  bring- 
ing his  mother,  who  had  come  to  London  for  his  leave  and 
wanted  to  see  as  much  of  him  as  possible.  If  Lady  Pen- 
tyre  refused  to  come  ...  if  her  absence  had  to  be  labori- 
ously explained  .  .  . 

The  telephone  meant  questions.  She  wrote  out  a  tele- 
gram and  sent  it  down  by  the  hand  of  her  chambermaid; 
then  she  lay  down  on  the  bed  and  tried  first  to  make  her 
mind  a  blank,  but  Grayle's  voice  was  echoing  in  her  ears, 
then  to  surrender  to  her  headache,  but  it  absorbed  only  half 
her  attention.  If  she  could  explain  and  cry  to  someone  .  .  . 
a  man  .  .  .  Staring  dully  at  the  clock,  she  told  herself 
that  now  she  would  have  been  dressing,  now  telling  the 
butler  to  get  her  a  taxi ;  now,  when  her  dinner  was  brought 
in  on  a  tray,  Lord  Pentyre  would  be  waiting  in  the  lounge 
at  Claridge's;  another  moment,  and  he  would  have  been 
hurrying  forward  to  shake  her  hand,  order  her  a  cocktail, 
offer  her  a  cigarette.  .  .  . 

The  hotel  would  be  filled  with  people  that  she  knew 
and  wanted  to  see — not  that  she  cared  about  them,  but  be- 


246  SONIA  MARRIED 

cause  thfere  was  something  friendly  about  knowing  and  be- 
ing known.  She  loved  living  in  a  crowd.  In  her  first  sea- 
son, when  she  came  up  from  the  country  and  was  uncertain 
of  herself,  she  could  have  cried  with  mortification  when 
everyone  else  was  so  much  at  ease  and  she  was  left  in  the 
cold  until  she  spoke  of  comparative  strangers  by  their  Chris- 
tian names,  like  the  others,  to  pretend  that  she,  too,  had 
known  them  since  she  was  a  child.  Instead  of  which  .  .  . 
She  was  extraordinarily  attractive,  her  father  never  grudged 
money,  her  mother  worked  indef atigably ;  and — there  was 
no  harm  in  saying  it,  when  it  was  all  over, — she  had  been 
taken  at  her  own  valuation,  socially  boomed.  .  .  .  When  she 
was  engaged  to  Jim  Loring — she  could  see  it  now — what  a 
mesalliance  the  old  marchioness  must  have  thought  her  be- 
loved boy  was  making !  It  was  all  over  now,  but,  when  she 
dined  with  Bobby  Pentyre,  she  did  rather  like  seeing  two- 
thirds  of  the  people  bowing  to  her  and  knowing  that  the 
rest  were  whispering,  "Isn't  that  Sonia  Dainton?  Sonia 
O'Rane,  I  should  say.  Who's  she  with?"  In  her  first  sea- 
son someone  would  only  have  said  "Pentyre's  got  a  very 
pretty  girl  with  him." 

But  it  was  all  over — with  that  night.  And  how  petty, 
when  you  were  flung  against  realities !  To-morrow,  if  Pen- 
tyre  dined  at  Claridge's,  the  idlers  would  nod  to  him  and  say 
to  one  another,  "Pentyre  reminds  me.  Usen't  he  to  be 
rather  lie  with  Sonia  O'Rane?  Someone  was  saying  at 
lunch  .  .  ."  And  it  would  all  come  out!  At  least,  it 
wouldn't  .  .  .  She  didn't  care  a  damn,  if  anyone  knew 
the  truth,  but,  when  they  whispered  and  the  women  pre- 
tended not  to  be  listening  for  fear  it  was  improper — listen- 
ing all  the  time  till  their  ears  flopped  out  of  their  heads  . . . ! 

To-morrow — She  started  guiltily.  To-morrow  they  would 
be  expecting  her  at  ten  for  the  Belgian  Refugee  Commit- 
tee. And  she  was  lunching  out  with  someone — her  head 
ached  too  much  to  recollect  who  it  was ;  she  had  promised 
to  lunch  and  dine  out  for  a  fortnight,  as  she  always  did; 
luncheon  was  arranged  for  one  o'clock  at  the  Piccadilly 
Grill  Room  (so  it  must  be  some  very  young  admirer!),  be- 


THE  UNWRITTEN  LAW  247 

cause  she  had  to  go  on  to  a  charity  performance  at  the 
Alhambra,  where  she  was  appearing  in  a  tableau  with  Lady 
Sally  Farwell  and  a  crowd  of  other  people — something 
eighteenth-centuryish,  but  she  had  never  found  out  pre- 
cisely what  they  were  supposed  to  represent.  .  .  .  And  the 
day  after  she  was  starting  a  great  housing  scheme  for  the 
refugees  in  London,  begging  for  unoccupied  houses  with 
one  hand  and  superfluous  furniture  with  the  other,  bringing 
the  two  together.  That  was  the  kind  of  war-work  she 
liked.  .  .  .  Sir  Adolphus  Erskine  had  promised  her  one  of 
his  cars,  and  she  was  going  round  to  call  on  house  agents 
in  a  new  green  and  black  hat  with  broad  green  ribbons  at 
the  back  and  a  silk  cloak  bordered  with  Valenciennes  lace. 
.  .  .  Grayle  had  sat,  beating  a  stick  against  his  leg,  while 
she  chose  it.  ... 

That  was  all  over,  too.  A  bigger  woman,  she  supposed, 
would  have  gone  on  her  way  unperturbed,  refusing  to  be 
frowned  out  of  existence  and  regally  contriving  to  place 
everyone  else  in  the  wrong — "The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray" 
in  her  rehabilitation.  Though  that  was  on  the  stage,  of 
course ;  she  had  never  seen  it  in  real  life.  .  .  .  Anyway,  she 
could  not  sit  on  a  committee  with  Violet  Loring  and  know 
that  she  was  saying  to  herself,  "I  can't  make  out  why  Jim 
didn't  see  through  her."  Jim  never  had  seen  through  her, 
he  would  have  cut  off  his  hand  to  marry  her,  cut  off  both 
hands  when  she  broke  the  engagement.  But  Violet  Loring 
would  think  that  God  had  stepped  in  just  in  time  to  save 
him — "You're  well  out  of  it,  my  dear!  Rather  even  poor 
David  than  you." 

It  was  a  long  time  since  she  had  concentrated  her 
thoughts  on  David,  but  it  was  too  late  in  the  evening  to 
fit  him  into  his  place.  At  least  it  was  only  half-past  nine, 
but  she  was  too  tired  to  think.  It  was  not  much  use  going 
to  bed,  because  she  obviously  could  not  sleep,  but  it  would 
be  something  to  turn  the  lights  out.  Undressing  slowly, 
she  discovered  that  she  had  not  begun  to  unpack;  all  the 
things  that  she  did  not  want  would  be  at  the  top,  and  all 
the  things  that  she  wanted  at  the  bottom.  It  really  was 


248  SONIA  MARRIED 

not  worth  it.  ...  She  climbed  into  bed,  wondering  for  a 
moment  why  the  sheets  were  so  warm  and  discovering  that 
she  had  not  taken  off  her  stockings.  As  she  pulled  the  pil- 
low into  the  nape  of  her  neck,  a  comb  pressed  hard  against 
her  head,  and  she  found  that  she  had  not  brushed  her  hair. 
"I  suppose  a  man's  like  this,  when  he  goes  to  bed  drunk," 
she  told  herself.  Then  her  eyes  closed,  and  she  fell  asleep. 

At  two,  five  and  seven  she  woke  suddenly,  wondering 
what  the  vague  menace  was  that  had  frightened  her.  It 
stabbed  her  mind ;  her  heart  quickened  its  beat,  and  she  lay 
panting  until  gradually  she  passed  into  a  waking  dream. 
At  nine  she  was  roused  by  the  chambermaid,  who  said  that 
a  gentleman  had  called  to  know  if  Mrs.  David  O'Rane  was 
staying  in  the  hotel.  He  gave  no  name  of  his  own,  but  hers 
was  set  out  in  printed  capitals. 

"Mrs.  David  O'Rane,"  she  murmured,  taking  the  paper 
and  trying  at  once  to  seem  unconcerned  and  yet  to  identify 
the  writing  of  the  printed  letters.  "No,  it  can't  be  for  me. 
Who  did  you  say  brought  it?" 

"He  didn't  give  any  name,  ma'am." 

"But  what  was  he  like?"  she  asked,  conscious  that  she 
was  speaking  too  quickly  for  perfect  composure. 

"I  didn't  see  him,  ma'am.  One  of  the  porters  brought 
it  up.  I'll  enquire,  if  you  like." 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter,"  Mrs.  O'Rane  answered.  "I  was 
only  wondering.  .  .  .  Mrs.  David  O'Rane.  ...  It  can't  be 
meant  for  me.  .  .  ." 

It  was  well  that  she  had  registered  without  a  Christian 
name,  though  she  had  been  compelled  to  give  "The  Sanc- 
tuary" as  her  address — she  had  no  other;  her  unknown 
visitor  had  apparently  not  troubled  to  carry  his  investiga- 
tions so  far.  It  was  an  escape ;  it  was  also  the  first  verbal 
lie  that  she  had  ever  told. 

Then  for  the  day's  engagements.  .  .  .  Perhaps  nothing 
would  be  known  as  yet;  but  to-morrow  or  the  next  day  it 
would  be  known,  she  would  not  be  expected  at  her  Com- 
mittee ;  at  least,  they  would  wait  wondering  whether  to  ex- 


THE  UNWRITTEN  LAW  249 

pect  her  or  not.  ...  It  was  better  to  telegraph  and  say  that 
she  was  slightly  indisposed.  .  .  . 

The  past  was  closed  as  she  left  the  telegraph  office.  She 
had  to  dodge  back,  as  she  caught  sight  of  Lady  Loring  and 
the  Dowager  walking  away  from  the  Cathedral,  no  doubt 
going  through  the  Park  on  foot  to  kill  time  before  their 
joint  committee  meeting.  She  must  get  far  away  from  all 
these  associations  and  reminders;  and  she  must  find  some- 
thing to  do.  All  her  life  she  was  so  restless,  she  had  tried  to 
do  too  much,  she  was  always  looking  for  new  excitements; 
motherly  souls  like  Lady  Maitland  always  told  her  that — 
and  then  asked  her  to  sell  flags  outside  the  War  Office.  And 
with  every  man  who  fell  in  love  with  her  there  was  a  phase 
in  which  he  implored  her  tenderly  and  unselfishly  to  take 
better  care  of  herself — and  then  robbed  her  of  her  afternoon 
rest  in  order  to  dine  early  and  go  to  a  play.  People  were 
wonderfully  selfish  at  heart,  especially  those  like  David  and 
Vincent,  who  made  most  parade  of  their  unselfishness  and 
devotion.  .  .  .  Even  when  she  stayed  away  in  the  country 
and  was  supposed  to  be  doing  nothing,  she  was  never  happy 
without  some  diversion;  she  could  not  sit  down  and  read 
or  wander  about  a  garden,  or  go  for  aimless,  dreary  walks ; 
she  had  always  needed  the  stimulus  of  something  to  shew 
her  off,  to  polish  and  sharpen  her,  something  rival  and  com- 
peting, an  audience.  .  .  . 

It  was  not  going  to  be  easy  to  fill  her  endless  day,  her 
life  of  endless  days.  When  war  first  broke  out,  she  found 
that  her  world  was  come  to  an  end,  that  the  men  were  tak- 
ing commissions  and  the  women  training  themselves  to 
nurse.  She,  too,  had  tried  to  nurse — and  had  given  it  up 
because  the  physical  strain  was  too  great.  Then  after  her 
marriage  she  had  collected  these  committees  and  acted  and 
sung  for  charity,  but  there  were  very  few  things  that  she 
could  do.  And  she  had  not  learnt  to  do  anything  in  the 
interval.  A  government  office  might  engage  her,  if  she 
chose  to  furnish  satisfactory  references,  on  unskilled,  me- 
chanical work.  She  would  go  unrecommended,  without 
qualification.  .  .  .  No.  That  could  be  dismissed.  She  was 


250  SONIA  MARRIED 

not  going  to  the  Foreign  Office,  say,  to  have  Gerald  Degan- 
way  sniggering  to  his  friends  about  her;  or  to  find  herself 
unexpectedly  carrying  an  armful  of  papers  to  Sir  Harry 
Merefield,  or  Lord  John  Carstairs,  who  had  been  trans- 
ferred from  the  Diplomatic.  She  knew  people  in  all  these 
offices.  Before  the  war  she  had  met  them  every  night  at 
dances.  .  .  . 

Of  course,  a  man  like  Sir  Adolphus  Erskine  with  his 
spider's  web  of  commercial  interests  would  find  her  work, 
but  she  was  not  going  to  take  him  into  her  confidence ;  he 
had  known  her  in  her  glory,  when  London  was  at  her  feet. 
If  she  had  been  in  the  mood  to  discuss  herself  or  ask 
for  sympathy,  she  would  have  gone  the  day  before  to  Crow- 
ley  Court  and  braved  her  mother.  She  had  not  gone,  she 
would  never  go;  if  she  had  brought  this  kind  of  thing 
on  herself,  she  would  go  through  with  it  single-handed. 

As  soon  as  the  Lorings  were  safely  out  of  sight,  she 
walked  into  Ashley  Gardens  on  her  way  back  to  the  hotel. 
Opposite  the  Cathedral  a  car,  driven  by  a  girl  in  livery, 
was  awaiting  its  owner.  Mrs.  O'Rane  suddenly  decided  to 
go  up  and  speak  to  her. 

"I  wonder  if  you'll  give  me  some  information,"  she  began 
with  a  smile.  "I  want  to  know  where  you  have  to  go  to 
get  taken  on  for  a  job  like  that." 

"Can  you  drive  a  car  ?"  the  girl  asked. 

'Tve  driven  a  Fiat  and  an  Argyle  and  a  Mercedes." 

"Repairs?"  the  girl  asked  in  a  business-like  voice. 

"I  took  the  Mercedes  up  to  Scotland  single-handed  once. 
I  don't  say  I  could  take  an  engine  down,  but  I'm  equal  to 
the  ordinary  things." 

The  girl  considered. 

"The  General — I  drive  for  General  Calverly,  you 
know — "  Mrs.  O'Rane  nodded  and  turned  apprehensively 
to  see  whether  the  General  was  in  sight.  They  had  met 
a  week  before  at  dinner  with  the  Duchess  of  Ross.  "He 
was  asking  me  the  other  day  if  I  could  find  anyone  for 
a  friend  of  his,  some  man  in  the  Admiralty.  I  suppose 
you  know  your  way  about  London?  If  you  like  to  give 


THE  UNWRITTEN  LAW  251 

me  your  address,  I'll  mention  it  to  the  General.  Or,  of 
course,  you  can  go  to  the  school  where  I  went,  get  yourself 
tested  and  then  choose  for  yourself  when  someone  applies. 
It's  the  'Emergency  Motor  Drivers'  in  Long  Acre.  Aren't 
you  Mrs.  O'Rane  ?" 

"I  am.    How  did  you  know  that  ?" 

"I  thought  you  must  be,"  the  girl  answered  with  a  laugh. 
"I've  seen  your  photograph  in  the  papers  so  much.  The 
General  will  probably  want  you  to  come  and  drive  for 
him." 

Mrs.  O'Rane  tried  to  seem  pleased  by  the  compliment 
when  she  was  only  thankful  for  the  warning. 

"I'd  better  go  to  the  school,  I  think,"  she  said.  "They 
may  say  I'm  not  good  enough,  and  I  don't  like  disappoint- 
ing people.  Thanks  most  awfully.  Good-bye." 

She  hurried  away  as  a  portly  figure  in  uniform  clattered 
down  the  steps,  screwing  an  eye-glass  in  place,  while  his 
driver  stiffened  to  attention. 


On  the  morning  after  my  council  of  war  with  the  Oak- 
leighs,  I  telegraphed  to  Dainton  that  I  was  motoring  down 
and  suggested  that  I  should  pick  him  up  at  Crowley  Court 
and  drive  him  into  Melton  for  an  interview  with  O'Rane. 
He  must  have  guessed,  I  should  have  thought,  that  my  mis- 
sion overnight  had  failed,  but  I  could  see,  when  we  met, 
that  he  and  his  wife  were  emptily  hoping.  Both  were 
waiting  at  the  door  when  I  arrived;  both  looked  past  me 
into  the  empty  car,  as  I  got  out. 

"You  couldn't  get  her  to  come?"  Dainton  enquired  anx- 
iously. "Ah!" 

He  was  a  flabby,  ineffectual  little  man  at  the  best  of  times, 
and  the  shock  had  made  him  pathetically  more  flabby. 
God  knows !  it  was  not  my  tragedy,  and  I  cannot  boast  that 
I  am  capable  of  an  unusually  brave  show  under  affliction, 
but  I  wanted  to  make  Dainton  throw  out  his  chest  and  hold 
his  head  up — and  do  some  hard  manual  work  and  a  few 


252  SONIA  MARRIED 

physical  exercises.  I  wished,  for  her  elevation,  too,  that 
his  daughter  could  see  the  state  to  which  she  had  reduced 
him;  she  was  not  sufficiently  clever  or  detached  to  realise 
how  much  his  limp  indulgence  had  contributed  to  her  pam- 
pered, neurotic  wilfulness,  but  the  consequences  were  there 
for  all  to  mark.  Lady  Dainton  shewed  no  sign  of  weakness. 
She  had  not  slept  much,  I  dare  swear,  since  her  husband 
returned,  but  she  was  collected  and  equal  to  every  demand. 

"I  expect  we  shall  find  lunch  waiting,"  she  said,  as  I  came 
in.  "We  can  only  give  you  cold  comfort,  I'm  afraid.  When 
we  turned  the  house  into  a  hospital,  Roger  and  I  only  kept 
two  rooms  for  ourselves,  so,  if  you  find  my  nurses  running 
in  to  see  me  every  two  minutes,  don't  you  know?  .  .  .  I'm 
glad  you  were  able  to  come,  because  we're  spending  your 
money  here  and  I  want  you  to  see  that  we're  spending  it 
properly." 

A  table  had  been  laid  for  us  in  a  room  which  from  its 
"Vanity  Fair"  cartoons,  gun-cases,  "Badminton  Library" 
and  estate-maps,  I  judged  to  be  Dainton's  study.  The  serv- 
ants were  hardly  out  of  the  room  before  he  turned  to  me. 

"What  happened?"  he  demanded  anxiously.  "Catherine 
knows  everything." 

"I'm  afraid  it's  rather  more  and  perhaps  rather  worse 
than  either  of  you  know,"  I  warned  him.  "I  called  at  the 
house,  and  she  wasn't  there.  They'd  had  a  quarrel,  and 
she'd — left  him.  I've  no  idea  where  she  is,  though  George 
Oakleigh  was  going  to  make  all  possible  enquiries  to-day. 
You've  not  seen  O'Rane  since  last  night?" 

He  shook  his  head,  turning  his  face  away  abruptly  so 
that  I  should  not  see  it,  and  seemed  unable  to  speak. 

"We  thought  it  bettter  to  wait  till  we'd  heard  from  you," 
explained  Lady  Dainton.  "She's — left  this  man,  you  say? 
I  shall  want  a  moment  to  consider  this." 

I  only  broke  a  long  silence  because  I  observed  her  hus- 
band preparing  to  speak  and  knew  that  he  would  contribute 
nothing  worth  hearing. 

"As  I  see  it,  Lady  Dainton,"  I  said,  "there's  an  element 
of  hope.  We  can  never  set  things  as  they  were  before,  but 


THE  UNWRITTEN  LAW  253 

we  may  prevent  them  from  growing  worse.  On  the  one 
hand,  O'Rane  may  now  consent  to  stop  proceedings.  I've 
not  seen  him  since  he  made  up  his  mind  to  move,  I  can't 
say  what  decided  him,  but,  if  we're  all  agreed  that  we  don't 
want  the  scandal  of  a  divorce,  you  may  be  able  to  stop  it. 
On  the  other  hand,  I've  been  thinking  this  over  the  whole 
way  down  and  I'm  not  sure  that  a  divorce  isn't  the  neces- 
sary and  the  best  thing  for  both  of  them,  however  painful 
it  may  be  at  the  time.  Quite  clearly  your  daughter  and 
O'Rane  can  never  take  up  their  old  life;  you  see,  there 
are  no  children  to  keep  them  together,  even  in  appearance ; 
they're  both  quite  young,  and  I  question  whether  it's  fair 
on  either  to  condemn  them  to  their  present  state.  O'Rane 
can't  wake  up  in  ten  years'  time  and  discover  that  it  would 
be  a  good  thing  for  both  of  them  to  resume  their  liberty." 
Neither  spoke  for  some  time.  Then  Lady  Dainton  said — 
"It's  all  come  so  suddenly,  don't  you  know?  that  one  is 
quite  bewildered  and  stupid.  First  a  divorce  and  then  an 
idea  of  stopping  it  and  now  an  idea  of  not  stopping  it.  ... 
All  of  you  have  known  about  it  so  much  longer  ...  By  the 
way,  why  did  you  never  tell  us,  Mr.  Stornaway?  I'm  not 

reproaching  you,  of  course,  but  as  Sonia's  mother " 

"I  thought  about  it  a  great  many  times,"  I  answered. 
"Our  lips  were  really  sealed  by  O'Rane.  As  long  as  he 
hoped  to  get  her  back,  we  wanted  to  spare  you  all  knowl- 
edge of  it ;  we  wanted  to  make  it  easier  for  her  by  keeping 
down  the  number  of  people  who  did  know." 

"You  didn't  think  that  I  could  help  to  persuade  her?" 
Lady  Dainton  might  say  that  she  was  not  reproaching  me, 
but  her  voice  was  the  embodiment  of  reproach  directed  not 
only  at  me  or  the  Oakleighs  or  O'Rane  himself,  but  at  our 
whole  sex  for  presuming  to  interfere  between  mother  and 
daughter.  I  could  see  that  she  was  confident  of  her  power 
to  restore  peace,  if  only  we  had  not  ignored  her  until  it  was 
too  late.  My  nerves  were  in  tatters,  I  could  feel  the  blood 
rushing  to  my  head  and  in  my  turn  I  began  to  grow  impa- 
tient with  her,  not  for  myself  or  my  sex,  but  for  her 
daughter.  If  ever  the  sins  of  the  fathers  were  visited  on 


254  SONIA  MARRIED 

the  children,  poor  Sonia  O'Rane  was  being  punished  for  the 
lax  indulgence  and  pretentious  ambition  of  her  mother; 
had  she  once  been  checked  or  chidden,  had  she  been  allowed 
to  marry  some  man  in  her  own  walk  of  life  instead  of  being 
fed  with  flattery  and  encouraged  to  look  for  what  her 
mother  considered  a  "good  match,"  I  should  have  been 
spared  many  months  of  worry  and  my  present  extremely 
painful  interview. 

"With  great  respect,  I  don't  think  anyone  could  have 
persuaded  her,"  I  said.  "She  started  with  a  preposterous 
but  sincere  belief  that  her  husband  was  unfaithful  to  her, 
their  life  was  fantastically  impossible,  both  had  strong  wills, 
O'Rane  was  culpably  trustful  and  Grayle  was  a  man  who 
had  been  uniformly  successful,  as  it  is  called,  with  women. 
You  had  all  the  ingredients  of  disaster  there,  though  it's 
always  a  big  thing  for  a  woman  to  compound  them.  Once 
she'd  done  it,  there  was  no  recalling  her.  I've  seen  her 
twice  since,  Lady  Dainton;  no  power  on  earth  would  have 
sent  her  back  to  her  husband,  even  if  she'd  wanted  to  go." 

She  finished  her  meal  in  silence,  only  shrugging  her  shoul- 
ders gently  as  if  to  suggest  that,  however  wrong  I  might 
be,  there  was  no  profit  in  discussing  the  past.  Dainton  kept 
asking  me  what  I  thought  O'Rane  would  do  and  what  we 
must  insist  on  his  doing;  I  retaliated  each  time  by  asking 
him  whether  he  wanted  a  divorce  or  not;  and  there  was 
never  any  answer. 

I  had  warned  O'Rane  that  I  was  coming,  but  he  stif- 
fened perceptibly  when  the  Daintons  came  in  with  me.  In 
a  moment,  however,  he  was  calm,  dispassionate  and  life- 
less as  I  had  always  found  him  since  the  estrangement 
began.  And  then  for  the  third  time,  with  the  knowledge 
that  our  nerves  were  raw  and  quivering,  I  had  to  tell  him 
of  my  visit  to  Milford  Square  and  my  meeting  with  Ban- 
nerman  and  Grayle.  We  talked  as  if  we  were  solicitors 
attending  a  consultation  with  counsel,  treating  O'Rane.  and 
O'Rane  treating  himself,  as  the  lay  client. 

"I  saw  she  wasn't  coming  back  to  me,"  he  explained, 
"so  I  thought  the  kindest  thing  was  to  let  her  lead  her  new 


THE  UNWRITTEN  LAW  255 

life  unembarrassed  by  ties  with  me.  I  could  have  let  her 
bring  the  petition,  I  suppose,  but  I  rather  draw  the  line  at 
that.  I  didn't  see,  however  much  I  loved  her,  why  I  should 
get  Jp  and  lie  and  say  I'd  been  disloyal  to  her." 

The  Daintons  looked  at  me,  as  though  they  wanted  me 
to  be  spokesman,  and  I  reminded  O'Rane  of  his  offer  to 
stay  proceedings,  if  his  wife  and  Grayle  separated. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  smiled  mirthlessly. 

"It  started  as  blackmail,  I'm  afraid.    Afterwards  I  did 

want  to  spare  her,  if  I  could I  hoped  she'd  come  back 

to  me.     When  she  refused  .  .  ." 

"I  was  telling  Lady  Dainton,"  I  said,  "that,  if  you  don't 
expect  her  to  come  back,  you  probably  ought — in  the  inter- 
ests of  you  both — to  let  the  proceedings  take  their  course. 
I  know  you  don't  like  the  idea  of  it, — we  none  of  us  do — but 
you  wouldn't  like  the  idea  of  her  being  tied  in  any  way  for 
the  rest  of  her  life.  Of  course,  this  isn't  a  thing  that  you 
can  decide  offhand,  but,  when  you  consider  it,  there's  one 
factor  you  musn't  leave  out,  and  that  is  Grayle." 

O'Rane  raised  his  head  slowly. 

"He  doesn't  come  in  now." 

"To  this  extent  he  does,"  I  said.  "If  he's  cited  as  co- 
respondent at  the  present  time,  he'll  have  to  retire  from 
public  life.  You  and  Dainton  and  I  know  that  quite  posi- 
tively  " 

"I  don't  much  mind  who  retires  from  public  life,"  he  in- 
terrupted with  a  thin-lipped  smile. 

"But  that  man's  quite  capable  of  quarrelling  with  your 
wife — well,  not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  on  it — to  get  rid  of 
her,  to  avoid  a  scandal,  to  accept  your  terms.  I  believe 
he'd  have  accepted  them  that  night.  I  confess  I  can't  make 
up  my  own  mind  what  to  do.  .  .  ." 

O'Rane's  head  drooped  forward  for  a  moment;  then  he 
raised  it  and  faced  us. 

"I  can't  decide  anything,  either,"  he  said.  "My  brain 
seems  to  have  gone  to  pulp." 

One  glance  at  him  was  enough.  I  got  up,  and  he  did 
the  same.  The  Daintons  looked  at  each  other  and  at  me, 


256  SONIA  MARRIED 

refusing  to  move,  as  though  they  could  force  a  decision 
by  staying  there.  I  shook  my  head  and  opened  the  door 
into  the  Cloisters. 

"But — before  we  go "  began  Lady  Dainton,  half- 
rising. 

"The  difficulty  is  that  we  don't  know  what  we  want,"  I 
pointed  out. 

Sir  Roger  became  stammeringly  urgent. 

"We  do  know !"  he  cried.  "We  want  to  avoid  a  scandal, 
we  want  to  keep  our  poor  Sonia  from — you  know,  all  the 
talk  and  the  papers " 

"But  after  that?"  I  asked. 

Lady  Dainton  slipped  her  hand  through  her  husband's 
arm  and  led  him  through  the  door.  I  said  good-bye  to 
O'Rane,  but  he  insisted  on  accompanying  us  to  my  car  and, 
when  the  Daintons  were  out  of  ear-shot,  enquired  whether 
the  news  had  been  a  great  blow  to  them. 

"I  ask,  because  I  should  have  thought  they  must  have 
had  some  suspicion  of  it,"  he  said.  "People  here  don't  say 
anything  to  me,  of  course,  but  I'm  sure  they  know.  There's 
a  sort  of  bed-side  manner  about  them;  you  notice  these 
things,  if  you're  blind;  it's  as  if  you  were  calling  on  a  fel- 
low in  hospital,  when  he's  had  his  leg  off,  and  you're  being 
awfully  bright  and  not  seeing  any  difference.  ...  Is  it  being 
discussed  in  London?" 

"I'm  afraid  it  is." 

He  walked  with  his  face  averted. 

"What  do  they  say  ?"  he  asked,  steadily  enough. 

"That  she's  living  with  Grayle  and  that  you're  going  to 
divorce  her." 

O 'Kane's  pace  slackened. 

"H'm.  The  first  part's  no  longer  true,  the  second  part 
isn't  true  yet.  Stornaway,  you've  been  uncommon  kind  to 
me;  d'you  feel  disposed  to  throw  good  money  after  bad 
and  help  me  a  bit  more  ?  We've  been  discussing  what's  the 
best  thing  to  do  and  how  we  ought  to  treat  Grayle  and  that 
sort  of  thing,  but  so  far  we  haven't  taken  Sonia  into  ac- 
count much.  I  want  you  to  find  her  for  me.  Do  anything 


THE  UNWRITTEN  LAW  257 

you  like  and,  when  you've  found  her,  discuss  with  her  what 
she  wants  done.  I'll — generally  speaking,  you  may  tell  her 
I'll  do  anything.  If  I  drop  the  petition  now  and  some  time 
later  on  she  wants  to  be  free  again, — I  don't  like  it,  but  I 
suppose  it  can  be  managed;  these  things  have  been  done 

before.  ...  As  for  Grayle "  He  shook  his  head  wearily. 

"I  feel  our  tariff  of  punishment  in  this  world  is  so  inade- 
quate. You  can  hang  a  man  who  commits  a  murder,  but 
you  can't  hang  him  twice,  when  he  murders  two  people. 
He's  broken  up  our  two  lives  pretty  much, — and  I  dare 
say  we  weren't  the  first;  if  I  could  make  him  suffer  as 
much  as  I'd  suffered  through  him,  we  still  couldn't  cry 
'quits.'  If  he  loved  Sonia — God  in  Heaven!  we  all  make 
mistakes!  Think  how  ridiculously  few  people  we  have  to 
choose  from  before  we  marry!  We  may  think  it's  the 
real  thing  and  afterwards  find  we  were  wrong;  I  was  pre- 
pared to  think  that  with  them,  and  if  she  was  going  to  be 
happier  with  him  .  .  ."  He  stopped  abruptly  and  gripped 
my  arm  with  fingers  of  steel.  "Do  you  honestly  think  he 
behaved  like  this,  because  he  was  afraid  of  having  his  pros- 
pects injured  by  the  scandal?" 

"That's  Bertrand's  view,"  I  answered.  "He's  a  very  fair 
ruffian,  you  know.  He  would  always  have  an  intrigue  with 
a  woman,  if  he  thought  there  was  anything  to  be  got  out 
of  it;  it  doesn't  require  a  great  stretch  of  imagination  to 
assume  the  converse." 

We  were  approaching  Big  Gate,  and  he  pulled  gently 
at  my  arm  to  stop  me. 

"If  that's  true,  we  can't  leave  it  where  it  is,"  he  sighed. 
"Grayle  can't  have  it  both  ways.  If  he  doesn't  resign  his 
seat  in  a  week,  I  shall  go  on  with  the  proceedings." 

"But  if  you  decide  to  go  on  in  any  event?" 

"Well,  he's  no  worse  off.  He'll  be  in  private  life  then, 
with  no  political  career  to  bother  about." 

"And  if  he  refuses  and  you  find  you  can't  enforce  the 
threat?  I  mean,  if  your  wife  asks  you  not  to ?" 

"I  shall  find  some  other  way  of  breaking  him.  This  is 
not  a  time  for  thinking  about  niceties  of  law." 


258  SONIA  MARRIED 

"He's  not  the  man  to  surrender  easily/'  I  warned  O'Rane. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  am,"  he  answered,  and  the  muscles 
of  his  cheeks  twitched.  "Well,  my  solicitors  are  in  com- 
munication with  his " 

"But  */  he  refuses  to  be  bluffed?"  I  persisted. 

"We'll  try  some  other  means,"  he  repeated.  "Will  you 
be  kind  enough  to  convey  my  message — you're  sure  to  see 
him  at  the  House " 

"We're  at  some  pains  to  avoid  each  other,"  I  said. 

"But  you  could  meet  him  for  my  sake — just  to  give  him 
the  message?"  O'Rane  begged. 

I  assented  without  more  reluctance  than  was  unavoidable 
and  said  good-bye.  We  drove  in  silence  to  Crowley  Court, 
Sir  Roger  staring  with  troubled  brown  eyes  out  of  one  win- 
dow and  Lady  Dainton,  set  and  unrevealing,  out  of  the 
other.  At  the  door  she  offered  me  tea,  but  for  a  hundred 
reasons  I  wanted  to  get  away  as  soon  as  possible. 

"For  the  present  I  suppose  we  can  do  nothing,"  she  said, 
as  we  shook  hands.  "I  rely  on  you  to  tell  us  when  you  have 
any  news."  For  the  first  time  she  was  unable  to  keep  an 
expression  of  physical  exhaustion  out  of  her  eyes.  "I 
don't  know  what  any  of  you  are  doing,  of  course;  what 
steps  are  being  taken  to  find  Sonia." 

"I'm  making  myself  personally  responsible,"  I  prom- 
ised her. 

Then  I  drove  back  to  London  and  arranged  with  George 
to  dine  with  me  at  the  Club.  After  a  restless  night  he  had 
called  at  eighteen  of  the  likeliest  hotels  in  the  hope  of  ar- 
riving at  news  of  Mrs.  O'Rane  for  the  comfort  of  her  hus- 
band and  parents.  Someone  of  the  same  surname  was  stay- 
ing at  the  Grosvenor,  but  it  was  not  Sonia.  I  described  my 
visits  to  Crowley  Court  and  Melton,  and  we  concerted  a 
plan  for  tracking  her  to  her  hiding-place. 

Two  years  and  a  quarter  in  the  government  service  had 
made  George  more  of  a  "handy-man"  than  I  have  ever  met 
before  or  since.  He  knew  the  right  official  in  every  depart- 
ment for  hurrying  through  the  most  diverse  business  for  the 
largest  number  of  friends.  If  news  were  required  of  a 


THE  UNWRITTEN  LAW  259 

prisoner-of-war,  if  cigars  were  wanted  out  of  bond  for  the 
use  of  a  neutral  Legation,  if  a  German  governess  had  to 
be  repatriated,  a  passport  obtained,  naturalisation  papers 
taken  out,  export  permits  secured,  George  would  triumph 
in  the  quickest  possible  time  over  the  greatest  possible  ob- 
stacles. It  was  absurd,  he  told  me,  to  advertise  or  insert 
cryptic  messages  in  the  "agony"  column  of  the  "Times"; 
absurder  still  to  employ  detectives.  For  what  other  pur- 
pose did  Hugh  Mannerly  and  the  Alien  Control  Depart- 
ment exist?  He  telephoned  to  the  Home  Office  forthwith, 
but  Mr.  Mannerly  had  praetermitted  his  control  of  aliens 
in  the  interests  of  dinner. 

'Til  get  on  to  him  to-morrow,"  he  promised.  "We'll  have 
every  hotel  and  boarding  house  in  London  searched  for  her ; 
and,  if  she's  not  in  town,  we'll  go  to  work  in  the  country. 
It  will  take  a  day  or  two,  but  Hugh  Mannerly  is  unfailing 
and  perfectly  discreet." 

After  my  tribute  to  George  and  his  to  Mannerly,  I  am 
sorry  to  record  that  the  first  three  days  of  the  hunt  were 
blank.  It  was  ascertained,  indeed,  that  Mrs.  O'Rane  had 
stayed  at  the  Grosvenor  for  the  night,  and  that  her  address 
was  fully  inscribed  in  the  Visitors'  Book.  ("Damned  fool 
I  was  not  to  call  for  the  book !"  George  exclaimed.  "I  felt 
certain  it  must  be  her  and  then,  when  they  said  it  wasn't, 
I  felt  equally  certain  that  it  couldn't  be.")  Where  she  had 
gone  from  the  hotel  no  one  knew. 

"She's  staying  with  friends  somewhere  in  town,"  George 
decided,  "or  else  she's  gone  out  of  London.  I'll  get  Man- 
nerly to  work  again  outside.  I've  spoken  to  a  friend  of 
mine  in  the  Permit  Office,  so  she  can't  leave  the  country, 
and  I've  found  out  from  Raney  that  she  banks  with  Phil- 
pott's  in  Victoria  Street.  Mannerly's  told  the  manager  to 
watch  the  account  and  report  all  lodgements  and  drawings ; 
if  she  deals  by  post,  we  may  find  out  whereabouts  she  is 
and,  if  she  comes  to  the  bank  in  person,  we  can  arrange  for 
the  manager  to  keep  her  there  till  we  arrive." 

I  confess  that,  however  efficient  George  might  be,  I  found 
him  a  little  high-handed. 


260  SONIA  MARRIED 

"I'm  the  complete  bureaucrat,"  he  assented  grimly,  pol- 
ishing his  pipe  on  the  sleeve  of  his  uniform.  "And  I  may 
tell  you  that,  when  I  consider  the  opportunities  for  oppres- 
sion afforded  by  the  public  service,  I'm  amazed  at  my  own 
moderation.  Anyone  would  start  a  revolution  to-morrow, 
if  he  knew  the  black  conspiracy  against  personal  liberty 
which  a  few  thousand  of  us  are  carrying  out." 

Once  again,  after  being  promised  the  full  sinister  support 
of  all  the  conspirators,  I  feel  ungracious  in  having  to  re- 
cord that  the  utmost  efforts  of  Mr.  Hugh  Mannerly  failed 
to  produce  any  result.  His  department,  let  me  say,  was 
admirably  organised,  and  a  ridiculously  short  time  passed 
before  I  was  informed  that  no  one  giving  the  name  of 
Sonia  O'Rane  or  Mrs.  David  O'Rane  was  registered  in 
any  hotel  or  licensed  lodging-house  throughout  England, 
Scotland  or  Wales.  The  manager  of  the  Victoria  Street 
branch  of  Philpott's  Bank,  with  a  disregard  for  the  con- 
fidential relations  between  a  bank  and  its  customers  which 
would  have  amazed  me  in  peace-time,  stated  that  Mrs. 
O'Rane  had  personally  cashed  a  cheque  for  twenty  pounds 
three  days  before,  that  her  balance — unusually  large,  I  im- 
agined, for  her — was  one  hundred  and  eighty-seven  pounds 
fourteen  shillings  and  five  pence,  that  no  lodgements  had 
been  made  since  the  beginning  of  the  month,  but  that  he 
would  promptly  report  all  future  transactions  so  long  as 
Mr.  Mannerly  desired  him  to  do  so. 

"I  telegraphed  to  Dainton,  after  I'd  been  to  see  Hugh," 
George  told  me.  "As  we  haven't  struck  oil  so  far,  I  thought 
it  would  be  useful  to  apply  a  little  more  pressure.  I  im- 
agine Sonia  must  be  living  now  solely  on  her  father's  al- 
lowance, so  I  suggested  that  he  should  stop  it  and  see  what 
happened  when  she'd  exhausted  her  present  funds.  It's 
funny  about  Hugh;  he's  usually  so  good.  ...  A  nuisance, 
too,  because  time's  so  important.  You  see  Lloyd-George 
is  getting  out  his  Ministry  ?  About  two-thirds  of  the  offices 
seem  to  be  allocated  with  some  certainty." 

"Have  they  found  a  place  for  Grayle  yet  ?"  I  asked. 


THE  UNWRITTEN  LAW  261 

"He's  mentioned  for  all  sorts  of  places,"  was  the  an- 
swer. 

I  felt  that  the  Government  might  not  want  to  include 
Grayle  until  he  had  cleared  himself.  People  were  still  ask- 
ing vaguely  whether  it  was  true  about  Grayle,  but  no  one 
could  find  flesh  wherewith  to  clothe  the  bones  of  the  scan- 
dal. Grayle  himself  had  not  crossed  my  path  since  our 
warm  parting  in  Milford  Square;  indeed,  everyone  who 
button-holed  me  to  discuss  appointments  or  ask  my  view 
of  the  rumour  admitted  by  implication  that  he  had  not  seen 
Grayle.  Someone — I  cannot  remember  who — told  me  that 
he  had  left  London  on  one  of  the  surprise  visits  to  G.H.Q., 
which  with  Grayle  played  the  same  part  as  the  old  "diplo- 
matic chill"  of  other  days.  As  the  government  of  the  coun- 
try and  the  conduct  of  the  war  were  at  a  standstill,  as  mem- 
bers of  both  houses  were  flocking  back  to  Westminster 
from  all  quarters  to  join  in  the  scramble  for  office,  I  found 
this  explanation  unconvincing. 

I  was  soon  to  find  it  baseless.  In  fulfilment  of  my  prom- 
ise, I  sent  a  note  by  hand  to  Grayle's  house,  asking  him  to 
meet  me  on  urgent  business  at  a  time  and  place  to  be  ar- 
ranged by  him.  My  messenger,  who  had  been  instructed  to 
enquire  whether  Grayle  was  at  home,  reported  that  he  had 
received  my  note  with  his  own  hands  and  had  replied  that 
there  was  no  answer. 


As  Grayle  would  not  come  to  see  me,  I  had  to  go  and 
see  Grayle. 

I  did  not  want  to  call  in  Milford  Square  unattended, — 
for  Grayle  had  said  in  his  haste  that  he  would  thrash  me 
out  of  the  house  with  a  crop,  and  I  knew  that  he  would  only 
disappoint  me  from  motives  of  prudence.  Had  he  been 
accessible,  I  should  have  liked  to  have  George  at  hand  to 
ring  the  bell  and,  if  necessary,  to  send  for  the  police ;  and, 
if  prudence  so  far  triumphed  over  natural  impulse  as  to 
allow  Grayle  to  discuss  terms,  George  would  once  more  be 
a  useful  witness  to  balance  Bannerman. 


262  SONIA  MARRIED 

Failing  George,  I  was  at  a  loss  to  know  whom  to  in- 
vite, for  Bertrand  was  too  old  to  be  embroiled  in  such  an 
undertaking.  Beresford,  of  course,  was  in  the  secret  and 
I  was  wondering  whether  he  would  really  conduce  to  the 
harmony  of  debate,  when  his  card  was  brought  in  with  a 
request  for  five  minutes'  conversation  on  private  busi- 
ness. 

"I  came  to  see  if  you'd  had  any  news  of  Sonia,"  he 
began,  as  the  door  closed.  "I've  been  on  the  look-out  so 
far  as  my  leg  would  let  me.  You  see,  in  the  ~»ld  days,  when 
we  were  together  so  much,  I  knew  something  of  her  haunts 
and  habits.  I  haven't  found  a  trace.  At  least,  not  of 
her." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  I  asked. 

He  pulled  forward  a  deed-box  and  rested  his  leg  on 
it,  smiling  grimly  to  himself. 

"Do  you  remember  the  first  and  only  time  you  honoured 
me  with  a  call?"  he  asked.  "It  was  to  say  that  the  au- 
thorities were  watching  my  articles  very  closely,  one  night 

when  Sonia  came  to  see  me,  and  you  naturally  assumed 
» 

"Appearances  were  against  you,"  I  said,  "and  it  was 
criminally  foolish,  anyway." 

"Well,  well !"  He  smiled  with  sardonic  indulgence.  "We 
won't  waste  time  on  that.  Appearances  have  been  pretty 
consistently  against  me  before  and  after,  until  the  night 
when  O'Rane  tried  to  strangle  me.  Has  it  ever  occurred 
to  you  that  appearances  were  fabricated  against  me?  We 
know  that  Grayle  let  you  all  think — and  Sonia,  too,  but 
she'd  lost  her  head  ...  I  find  that  the  thing  goes  much 
further  back.  I  never  told  you  about  my  exploits  when 
you  were  in  America,  did  I?"  he  went  on,  nursing  his  in- 
jured leg.  "The  first  time  they  imprisoned  me?  There 
isn't  much  to  tell,  but  it's  illuminating.  I'd  been  writing 
for  weeks  in  the  Watchman' — all  above  board  and  over 
my  own  name.  You,  no  doubt,  would  call  it  pernicious 
stuff — or  you  would  have  then;  people  are  coming  round 
to  my  views  a  bit  more  now — I  just  told  the  truth.  ..." 


THE  UNWRITTEN  LAW  263 

His  eyes  suddenly  flashed,  reviving  my  sense  that  I  was 
dealing  with  a  man  who  might  any  day  be  certified  in- 
sane. "The  whole  truth  and  nothing  but  the  truth!  The 
magistrate  nearly  choked  when  bits  of  my  articles  were 
read  aloud  in  court.  .  .  .  Well,  all  copy  has  to  be  in  by 
Tuesday  morning,  we  go  to  press  on  Thursday,  and  the 
paper  comes  out  on  Friday.  I  had  my  usual  two  sets  of 
proofs  delivered  on  the  Wednesday;  I  corrected  one  and 
sent  it  back,  the  other  I  tore  in  two  and  threw  into  the 
waste-paper  basket.  The  next  day " 

"Where  did  this  take  place  ?"  I  interrupted. 

"At  The  Sanctuary/  Didn't  I  say  that  ?  The  next  day, 
when  our  housekeeper  opened  the  office,  he  found  an  as- 
sortment of  the  police  with  the  usual  warrants  to  search 
the  place  and  confiscate  anything  that  took  their  fancy. 
By  the  time  they'd  taken  our  ledgers,  our  subscribers'  reg- 
ister, our  letter-books,  file  copies  and  the  whole  of  that 
week's  issue,  there  wasn't  much  for  the  delivery  vans,  when 
they  turned  up  at  nine,  and  literally  nothing  at  all  for  the 
editor  and  me  at  half -past  ten  except  two  nice,  kind  gentle- 
men who  put  us  under  immediate  arrest.  Quick  work, 
wasn't  it  ?  You'd  have  thought  that  not  a  soul  outside  that 
office  could  have  known  for  certain  that  I  was  even  writing 
that  week,  still  less  that  I'd  written  anything  stronger  than 
the  usual  articles.  I  suspected  at  the  time,  but  I  couldn't 
bring  myself  to  believe  that  Grayle  would  go  to  that  length 
to  get  me  out  of  the  way ;  I  knew  it  bored  him  to  see  Sonia 
talking  to  me,  but  he  had  a  fair  slice  of  her  time,  and  I 
didn't  think  then  that  he  was  more  than  flirting  with  her. 
Well,  that  was  the  first  step." 

He  paused  to  beg  a  cigarette. 

"Go  on,"  I  said,  as  I  threw  over  my  case. 

"Well,  that  broke  down,  because  I  did  a  hunger-strike, 
and  they  had  to  let  me  out.  There  was  another  misfire 
about  the  army " 

"I  heard  about  that,"  I  interrupted. 

"About  the  misfire  ?  I  wonder  if  you  did — the  early  part, 
I  mean.  Do  you  know  that  I  attested  in  the  old  voluntary 


264  SONIA  MARRIED 

days?  Ah,  I  thought  not.  I  kept  that  to  myself — for  fear 
of  seeming  patriotic,"  he  added  with  a  sneer.  "Well, 
when  the  Derby  recruiting  scheme  came  on,  there  was 
enough  hanky-panky  to  sicken  you.  I  don't  need  to  tell 
you  that  I'm  not  in  love  with  war  or  the  idea  of  driving 
people  out  like  sheep  to  be  slaughtered,  but,  if  you  have  it, 
let  it  hit  all  classes  alike.  From  the  very  first,  anyone  who 
was  strong  enough  to  resist  could  be  sure  of  getting  off. 
The  miners  said  they'd  strike,  if  anyone  tried  to  conscribe 
them;  the  Civil  Service  decided  for  itself  that  no  one  could 
get  on  without  it.  Well,  I  thought  this  wanted  shewing 
up,  so  I  went  along  to  Great  Scotland  Yard  to  collect  evi- 
dence at  first  hand.  I  got  it  right  enough.  The  first  men  I 
saw  were  a  hulking  lot  with  a  crowd  of  papers  in  their 
hands  to  declare  that  they  were  indispensable  to  the  satis- 
factory working  of  their  departments — people  like  that 
young  sot  Maitland; — they'd  been  forbidden  even  to  attest 
till  that  day,  but  the  numbers  weren't  keeping  up,  so  they 
were  turned  on  to  keep  things  going.  (I  believe  the  police 
and  the  Merchant  Marine  were  dragged  in,  too,  just  to 
give  the  thing  a  fillip.)  The  doctors  hardly  troubled  to 
look  at  me  before  I  was  rejected;  which  was  a  pity,  be- 
cause I  wanted  copy  about  the  medical  examination ;  but  re- 
jected I  was,  fair  and  square,  with  a  certificate  and,  I  sup- 
pose, some  tecord  on  their  books.  In  time  the  Military 
Service  Bill  was  passed,  and  I  found  myself  called  up. 
Now,  it  may  have  been  an  honest  blunder.  .  .  .  It's  cer- 
tainly a  damned  odd  coincidence." 

As  he  paused  to  laugh,  I  was  more  than  ever  struck  by 
his  likeness  to  a  grinning  skull  with  a  wig  on  it. 

"But  the  coincidences  were  only  just  beginning,"  he 
went  on.  "It  was  a  coincidence  that  someone  should  have 
been  nosing  round  among  my  papers — I  don't  know  who  it 
was,  I  hardly  ever  lock  anything,  least  of  all  my  own  front 
door.  But  I  thought  one  night  that  things  looked  unusual. 
I  have  my  own  taste  in  untidiness.  Then  someone  let 
out  to  O'Rane  that  I  was  being  watched  once  more.  (If 
I  didn't  seem  grateful  that  night,  it  was  because  you  were 


THE  UNWRITTEN  LAW  265 

devilishly  in  the  way  and  weren't  telling  me  anything  I 
didn't  know  before.)  Then  came  another  warrant,  another 
search  and  another  arrest.  By  one  of  these  curious  coin- 
cidences it  was  all  on  the  day  when  O'Rane  was  due  back 
at  Melton,  the  day  when,  by  one  last  coincidence,  Grayle 
got  back  from  France  earlier  than  he'd  been  expected." 
Beresford  raised  his  hand  and  brought  it  resoundingly 
down  on  the  table.  "I  can  prove  nothing!"  he  cried.  "I 
only  say  that  this  succession  of  coincidences — it's  queer. 
And,  if  I  was  a  nuisance  to  Grayle  in  the  early  days,  he 
found  me  very  useful  later  on.  My  God!  what  would  I 
not  do  to  get  level  with  that  man !  Thank  the  Lord !  there's 
no  Christian  forgiveness  about  me.  I'll  leave  that  to  people 
with  more  time  on  their  hands.  I've  a  great  deal  to  get 
through  in  a  very  short  space  and  I'd  like  to  do  him  in 
once  for  myself  and  three  times  for  Sonia.  Is  O'Rane  tak- 
ing any  steps?" 

"There  are  limits  to  his  powers  of  forgiveness,"  I  an- 
swered reassuringly.  "I'm  calling  on  Grayle  to-night  to 
suggest  that  he  should  retire  from  the  House." 

The  same  light  of  fanatical  hatred  came  into  Beresford's 
eyes. 

"I'd  give  something  to  be  there!"  he  cried. 

I  looked  at  him  and  resumed  the  train  of  thought  which 
his  entrance  had  interrupted.  I  knew  that  he  could  control 
himself,  if  he  tried,  but  I  did  not  know  whether  he  would 
try. 

"I  was  thinking  of  asking  you,  when  you  came  in,"  I 
said.  "You're  in  the  secret,  and  I  don't  want  to  admit  any- 
one else.  You  know  what  happens !  Everyone  tells  every- 
one else  on  condition  that  it  doesn't  go  any  farther.  But 
can  you  be  trusted  to  behave  yourself?  I  want  you  as  a 
witness,  and  you  may  have  to  call  for  help,  if  Grayle  tries 
to  fulfil  his  promise  of  thrashing  me  out  of  the  house.  But 
you're  not  to  speak,  you're  not  to  attempt  any  violence, 
you're  not  to  bring  even  an  umbrella  with  you.  Frankly, 
you  see,  I'm  not  inviting  you  for  your  amusement,  but 
for  my  convenience." 


266  SONIA  MARRIED 

I  could  see  his  teeth  grating. 

"I  expect  I  shall  get  my  amusement  out  of  it,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"Of  course,  we  may  not  be  able  to  get  into  the  house,  but 
we'll  go  together.  But  you  promise  not  to  open  your 
mouth  or  raise  a  finger?" 

Beresford  pushed  away  the  deed-box  and  held  out  his 
hand. 

"I  promise,"  he  said. 

It  was  a  wet,  starless  night  when  we  arrived  in  Milford 
Square  at  ten  o'clock.  I  dismissed  my  taxi,  rang  the  bell 
and  waited.  There  was  no  answer,  and  I  rang  again.  It 
was  inconceivable  that,  to  keep  me  out  of  the  house,  Grayle 
had  disconnected  the  front  door  bell  or  given  instructions 
that  it  was  to  be  disregarded  on  principle. 

"I'm  afraid  I've  brought  you  on  a  fool's  errand,"  I  said 
to  Beresford,  as  I  rang  a  third  time. 

We  looked  to  right  and  left  for  a  second  bell,  an  area 
door  or  any  other  promise  of  admission.  Two  interested 
maids  from  a  neighbouring  house  joined  our  search-party, 
and  a  constable  flashed  his  bull's-eye  impartially  on  us  all 
and  asked  if  we  had  lost  anything. 

"I'm  trying  to  get  into  this  house,"  I  said,  pointing  to 
Grayle's  door,  "and  I  can't  make  anyone  hear." 

He  pondered  for  a  moment  and  then  led  us  into  the 
Brompton  Road. 

"There  was  a  light  in  the  studio,  when  I  came  on  duty. 
You  may  be  able  to  get  in  that  way." 

We  groped  through  a  narrow  passage  to  a  wooden  door 
set  in  a  high  brick  wall.  Over  our  heads  I  could  see  the 
outline  of  two  windows,  securely  curtained  but  with  a 
phosphorescent  border.  There  was  neither  bell  nor  knocker 
to  the  door,  but  I  battered  resonantly  on  the  thick,  blistered 
panels  with  my  umbrella.  For  perhaps  two  minutes  there 
was  no  answering  sound,  and  I  banged  again.  This  time 
I  was  rewarded  by  the  slam  of  a  door,  the  noise  of  feet 
on  a  stone  passage  and  the  rasp  of  a  heavy  key.  The 
door  opened,  and  my  eyes,  which  were  grown  used  by  now 


THE  UNWRITTEN  LAW  267 

to  the  darkness,  recognised  the  massive  outlines  of  Guy 
Bannerman. 

"Hullo?  Who  are  you?  What  d'you  want?"  he  de- 
manded sharply. 

I  slipped  the  end  of  my  umbrella  into  the  doorway. 

"Is  Grayle  at  home,  Guy?"  I  asked.  "I'm  Raymond 
Stornaway,  if  you  don't  recognise  my  voice.  I  have  to  see 
him  on  very  important  business." 

There  can  be  few  minor  humiliations  so  disconcerting  as 
to  slam  a  door  and  find  that  it  will  not  close. 

"You'll  only  ruin  a  good  umbrella,  Guy,"  I  said.  "Listen 
to  reason,  man.  You  remember  our  talk  the  last  time  I 
was  here?  You  know  that  Grayle's  by  way  of  being  cited 
as  a  co-respondent?" 

"Take  your  umbrella  out!"  Guy  whispered  angrily,  feel- 
ing for  it  with  his  foot,  but  not  daring  to  detach  either 
hand  from  the  door. 

"I've  come  with  a  proposal  from  O'Rane,"  I  said. 

The  energetic  foot  relaxed  its  industry. 

"Grayle's  given  orders  that  you're  not  to  be  admitted," 
he  said. 

"I  know.  And  you're  enough  in  his  confidence  to  say 
whether  he's  likely  to  be  interested  by  hearing  O'Rane's 
proposal.  I  sent  him  a  note  this  morning,  but  he  didn't  see 
fit  to  acknowledge  it.  If  he's  going  to  take  the  same  line 
now,  tell  me  at  once,  and  I'll  go  away.  If,  on  the  other 
hand,  he'll  let  us  in  and  behave  himself,  we'll  come.  I  may 
tell  you,  as  I've  already  told  Grayle,  that  I  don't  come  to  see 
him  for  any  morbid  pleasure  which  I  may  derive  from  our 
meetings !" 

Discretion  and  discipline  did  battle  within  Guy's  spirit, 
and  at  length  he  asked,  "Who's  'us'?" 

"I  have  Beresford  with  me,"  I  said. 

"I  can't  let  him  in,"  was  the  prompt  reply. 

"Then  we'll  go  home,  Beresford,"  I  said.  "Good-night, 
Guy.  Open  the  door  a  fraction  of  an  inch  so  that  I  can 
get  my  umbrella  out,  there's  a  good  fellow." 

He  did  as  I  asked  him,  though  guardedly.    I  pulled  at  the 


268  SONIA  MARRIED 

umbrella,  turned  my  back  and  started  down  the  passage, 
followed  reluctantly  by  Beresford.  I  walked  briskly  for 
fear  of  spoiling  the  effect,  and,  before  I  had  gone  ten  yards, 
Guy  was  running  heavily  after  me. 

"If  you  care  to  leave  a  message/'  he  began,  bringing 
a  massive  hand  to  rest  on  my  shoulder. 

"I  don't,"  I  interrupted. 

"But,  look  here,  Stornaway !" 

I  walked  on  and,  omitting  certain  obvious  intermediate 
stages,  found  Beresford  and  myself  shortly  afterwards  en- 
sconced in  arm-chairs  before  the  fire  in  Bannerman's  match- 
boarded,  paper-strewn  work-room  over  the  garage  at  the 
end  of  Grayle's  garden.  Our  surroundings  were  serviceable 
rather  than  sybaritic.  Oil-cloth,  a  fur  hearth-rug  and  a 
couple  of  Japanese  mats  covered  the  floor;  the  walls  were 
concealed,  half  by  stout  blue  volumes  of  the  Parliamentary 
Debates,  half  by  a  map  of  Canada,  another  of  British  South 
Africa  and  a  third  of  the  Western  Front.  A  double  writ- 
ing-table stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  with  a  sloping 
desk,  an  oil  reading-lamp  and  three  numbered  deed-boxes. 
There  was  a  reek  of  petrol  from  a  private  and  probably 
illegitimate  pyramid  of  leaking  tins,  which  had  projected 
themselves  upstairs  from  the  garage. 

Guy  produced  some  cigars  and  left  us  to  take  care  of 
ourselves  while  he  reconnoitred  the  house. 

"I've  let  you  in  on  my  own  responsibility,"  he  said,  as 
he  opened  the  door  leading  into  the  garden.  "Whether 
he'll  see  you  or  not  I  can't  tell." 

"I  think  he  will  see  us,"  I  murmured  to  Beresford,  when 
we  were  alone. 

I  for  one  had  satisfied  my  intellectual  cravings  for  Cana- 
dian geography,  when  we  heard  steps  approaching  on  the 
gravel.  A  moment  later  Grayle  was  framed,  though  he 
had  to  stoop  for  it,  in  the  doorway.  He  looked  at  me  with 
a  frown  which  deepened  at  sight  of  Beresford. 

"Well?"  he  demanded. 

"Good  evening,  Grayle,"  I  said.  "I've  come  with  a  mes- 
sage from  O'Rane." 


THE  UNWRITTEN  LAW  269 

"What  are  you  doing  here  ?"  he  asked  Beresf ord. 

The  promise  was  honourably  observed,  and  there  was  no 
answer. 

"I  brought  him  as  a  witness  in  case  you  shewed  any 
tendency  to  be  violent/'  I  said.  "Grayle,  O'Rane  thinks 
that,  the  sooner  you  give  up  your  seat  in  the  House,  the 
better.  For  what  it's  worth,  I  agree  with  him." 

He  was  still  standing  in  the  doorway  with  his  fingers  on 
the  handle.  Clearly  he  expected  something  more. 

"Is  that  all?"  he  asked. 

"All,"  I  said,  as  I  got  up  from  my  chair. 

"Then  what  the  hell  d'y°u  want  to  come  here  for,  wast- 
ing my  time  ?"  he  thundered.  "You  told  Bannerman  you'd 
got  a  proposal  to  make!" 

"O'Rane  proposes  that  you  should  retire  from  public 
life,"  I  explained.  "I  always  think  it's  better  to  do  a  thing 
voluntarily  than  under  compulsion." 

On  that  he  left  the  doorway  and  came  into  the  room. 

"This  is  a  threat,  is  it?"  he  asked,  looking  down  on  me 
with  arms  akimbo. 

"A  forecast,"  I  substituted.  "I  see  from  the  papers  that 
you  may  be  invited  to  join  the  Government.  You  will  never 
join  the  Government,  Grayle,  or,  if  you  do,  you'll  leave  it 
before  you  have  time  to  find  out  where  your  office  is.  If 
you  retire  voluntarily,  you  may  live  to  an  honoured  old 
age;  if  you  force  O'Rane  to  go  through  with  his  petition, 
I'm  afraid  you'll  have  a  very  ugly  fall." 

Grayle  loosened  his  belt,  though  with  too  much  deliberate 
preoccupation  to  suggest  that  he  was  about  to  use  it  as 
an  argument  in  favour  of  our  retirement;  then  he  unbut- 
toned his  tunic,  removed  a  bundle  of  papers  from  a  woollen 
khaki  waistcoat  and  transferred  them  to  one  of  his  outside 
breast-pockets. 

"Do  you  know?  your  forecast  does  not  strike  me  as  ex- 
haustive," he  observed,  as  he  settled  his  belt  in  place  once 
more.  "As  a  preliminary,  however,  does  O'Rane  propose 
to  go  on  with  the  divorce?" 

"Frankly,  I  can't  tell  you,"  I  said.     "He  would  like  to 


270  SON! A  MARRIED 

consult  his  wife's  wishes.  I  make  no  bones  about  telling 
you,  Grayle,  that  you  get  very  little  out  of  any  proposed 
arrangement.  If  she  wants  a  divorce,  your — fair  name, 
shall  we  call  it? — is  smirched,  whatever  you  do;  but  I 
fancy,  unless  you  find  your  parliamentary  duties  too  exact- 
ing for  your  enfeebled  health — and  that  within  one  week 
from  to-night, — your  fair  name  will  be  smirched  whether 
she  wants  a  divorce  or  not.  I  can't  say  what's  in  her  mind, 
of  course,  but,  if  you  accept  defeat  at  'once,  there's  a  fifty 
per  cent,  chance  that  you'll  escape  a  scandal  in  which,  when 
all's  said  and  done,  you  don't  cut  a  very  gallant  figure.  By 
the  way,  I  have  to  have  your  answer  to-night." 

"My  answer's  'no.' " 

It  was  given  without  hesitation  and,  so  far  as  I  could  see, 
without  bluff.  I  have  been  connected  with  large  commer- 
cial enterprises  long  enough  to  be  a  tolerable  judge. 

"I'll  let  O'Rane  know  at  once,"  I  said,  getting  up  again 
and  motioning  Beresford  to  do  the  same.  "It  will  be  an 
unsavoury  case,  Grayle." 

"Which  is  presumably  the  reason  he's  so  unwilling  to 
go  on  with  it,"  Grayle  sneered.  "But  make  no  mistake  who 
comes  out  of  it  worst.  He  hasn't  bothered  to  think.  Your 
— proposal  I  reject  with  thanks,  but  I'll  make  another. 
You're  quite  right  in  thinking  that  I  would  sooner  not  be 
mixed  up  in  these  proceedings  any  more;  if  O'Rane  will 
give  me  a  written  undertaking  to  drop  them  here — and — • 
now  and  never  to  revive  them,  we  can  let  it  rest  at  that." 

Beresford  had  not  promised  to  refrain  from  laughter, 
and  I  excused  it  as  the  only  possible  comment  on  the  offer. 

"Come  along,"  I  said  to  him.  "We're  wasting  the  na- 
tion's time ;  and  the  nation  won't  have  the  benefit  of  it  much 
longer." 

Grayle  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  led  the  way  to  the 
door  on  the  lane. 

"So  be  it !"  he  said.  "Yet  mine  was  a  fairer  bargain  than 
yours.  There  was  at  least  a  quid  pro  quo" 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  see  it." 

"Then  I'm  afraid  your  principals  haven't  instructed  you 


THE  UNWRITTEN  LAW  271 

very  thoroughly/'  he  answered  impatiently.  "From  your 
general  tone  to  me,  you  evidently  think  that  I've  behaved 
very  badly,  that  it  was  my  fault,  that  the  sympathy  of  the 
court  will  be  entirely  with  O'Rane  and  his  wife.  It  may 
be  with  O'Rane,"  he  added  meaningly.  'Til  tell  you  at 
once  that  I  propose  to  defend  the  action  and,  though  it's 
only  guess-work,  I  shall  be  very  much  surprised  if  O'Rane 
gets  a  decree.  .  .  .  If  he  likes  washing  his  wife's  dirty 
linen  in  public,  that's  his  affair,  but  what  seems  to  have  been 
overlooked  is  the  attitude  of  Mrs.  O'Rane  throughout.  To 
begin  with,  I  can  call  witnesses  to  prove  that  O'Rane  re- 
peatedly proclaimed  that  he  wouldn't  raise  a  finger  to  keep 
his  wife,  if  she  preferred  to  risk  her  happiness  with  an- 
other man.  She  used  to  say  she  wouldn't  stay  with  him, 
if  she  was  unhappy;  I  can  produce  witnesses  who'll  testify 
to  that,  too.  Any  pretence,  therefore,  that  I  burst  in  on  a 
happily  married  couple  and  forced  them  apart  is  historically 
untrue.  And  this  will  come  out  in  court.  But  what  mat- 
ters more  from  the  point  of  view  of  Mrs.  O'Rane's  repu- 
tation is  the  evidence — I  think  you  were  with  me,  Storna- 
way,  when  she  rang  me  up  one  night  at  the  House.  What 
you've  overlooked  in  your  haste  to  condemn  me,  what 
O'Rane's  overlooked  in  his  haste  to  save  his  wife's  repu- 
tation is  the  part  played  by  his  wife.  I'll  accept  full  re- 
sponsibility for  my  share  of  whatever's  happened,  but  I'm 
afraid  you'll  find  it  won't  ease  your  position.  Mrs.  O'Rane's 
letters  to  me,  which  will,  of  course,  be  read  in  court,  prove 
that  it  was  she  and  she  alone " 

It  was  not  difficult  to  imagine  the  end  of  the  sentence. 
Grayle  spoke  with  the  bored  indifference  of  a  man  who  has 
had  unwelcome  attentions  thrust  upon  him,  who  has  tol- 
erated them  as  long  as  he  can,  but  who  at  last  and  at  the 
risk  of  wounding  an  importunate  mistress  ...  I  never 
heard  it,  though,  because  Beresford,  unpardonably  if  excus- 
ably forgetting  his  promise  of  silence  and  immobility,  had 
twitched  my  umbrella  from  my  grasp  and  whirled  it  back- 
handed into  Grayle's  face  with  a  cry  of, 

"You  cad !  you  cad !  you  bloody  cad !" 


272  SONIA  MARRIED 


The  moment  that  the  blow  was  struck  I  felt  that  lives 
would  be  lost  before  we  parted.  Beresford  had  come  to  the 
house  clamorous  for  blood,  I  will  admit  at  once  that  I 
had  wrapped  a  taunt  round  every  word  that  I  had  spoken, 
and  for  weeks  Grayle  had  been  in  a  state  only  describable 
as  eruptive.  I  found  time,  however,  with  that  curious  de- 
tachment which  a  brain  shews  when  it  is  working  with 
twice  its  usual  clarity  and  speed  to  reflect  what  an  absurd 
and  incongruous  trio  we  made;  Beresford  dying  of  con- 
sumption, all  skin  and  bones  held  together  by  will-power 
— lame,  shabby,  ill-groomed,  with  two  blazing  eyes  in  a 
parchment-coloured  face;  Grayle  towering  over  the  pair 
of  us,  blue-eyed,  pink-cheeked — with  a  thread  of  blood  run- 
ning from  one  corner  of  his  mouth, — yellow-haired,  like 
some  giant's  child  in  uniform;  and,  if  I  could  have  seen 
myself,  I  should  have  looked  on  a  plump,  middle-aged  man 
with,  I  believe,  a  benevolent  expression,  a  good  many  wrin- 
kles on  the  forehead  and  round  the  eyes  and  a  thick  crop 
of  prematurely  white  hair. 

Beresford's  action  was  so  unexpected  and  sudden  that 
we — and  I  include  him — were  temporarily  paralysed.  After 
the  brief  outburst  there  followed  a  silence  in  which  we 
seemed  to  be  waiting  for  the  end  of  the  world  to  be  pro- 
claimed. Then  Grayle  put  his  hand  to  his  face  and  brought 
it  away  wet.  I  watched  him  raise  his  eyebrows  at  the 
sight,  walk  to  the  door  opening  on  to  the  garden,  turn  the 
key  and  pocket  it.  (I  suddenly  remembered  being  bullied 
at  Eton.) 

"He  brought  this  on  himself,"  he  observed  quietly  to  me ; 
and,  before  I  had  leisure  to  guess  what  he  intended  or  see 
what  he  was  doing,  he  had  gripped  Beresford  by  the  col- 
lar, lifted  him  off  his  feet  and  was  belabouring  him  with 
his  stick  until  the  ribs  cracked  like  dry  wood  in  a  hot  fire. 
At  the  end  of  six  swift  blows  the  itick  broke  in  two,  and  he 
looked  round  for  another  weapon.  A  round  office  ruler 
met  our  gaze  at  the  same  moment,  and  from  opposite  sides 


THE  UNWRITTEN  LAW  273 

we  pounced  on  it  simultaneously  and  simultaneously  caught 
hold  of  it.  I  had  two  hands  to  his  one,  however,  and  with 
a  wrench  I  contrived  to  twist  it  out  of  his  grasp. 

"Drop  him!"  I  cried,  but  Grayle  only  looked  round  for 
means  to  renew  the  attack.  "I'll  break  your  arm,  if  you 
don't." 

His  grip  on  Berejsford,  who  was  still  dangling  and 
writhing  in  the  air  with  his  face  purple  and  his  feet  rapping 
out  a  tattoo  on  the  oil-cloth,  never  relaxed.  I  raised  the 
ruler  above  my  head  and  brought  it  down  on  Grayle's  fore- 
arm with  all  the  strength  that  I  could  muster.  I  had  aimed  at 
his  wrist,  but  a  plunge  by  Beresford  spoiled  my  aim.  Grayle 
gave  some  body-twist,  which  I  was  too  much  preoccupied 
to  see,  and  an  instant  later  I  felt  his  powerful  fingers  in- 
side my  collar  and  my  head  being  savagely  bumped  against 
Beresford's.  Every  other  time  my  ear  was  crushed  against 
his  fleshless  skull,  and  the  pain  was  excruciating.  I  made 
ineffectual  backward  sweeps  with  the  ruler,  hitting  Beres- 
ford as  often  as  I  hit  Grayle ;  I  battered  on  his  fingers  and 
tried  to  drag  them  away  from  his  collar,  but  every  effort 
that  I  made  and  every  new  injury  that  I  inflicted  made  him 
the  drunker  with  lust  of  battle.  The  side  of  my  head  felt 
bruised  to  pulp,  and,  when  I  put  my  hand  up  to  protect 
it,  Grayle  only  laughed  like  a  maniac  and  changed  his  hold 
so  that  he  could  avoid  the  buffer  and  bang  us  on  our  un- 
protected brows. 

Beresford  was  limp  and  crowing,  I  breathless  and  sweat- 
ing before  it  occurred  to  me  to  use  my  feet.  Exploring  for 
Grayle's  shins  with  my  heel,  I  made  sure  of  my  mark  and 
lashed  out  and  up  as  hard  as  I  could  kick.  It  is  to  be  pre- 
sumed that  I  caught  him  on  his  injured  knee,  for  I  heard 
a  gasp  of  pain,  we  were  jerked  abruptly  backwards,  and 
Grayle  slowly  subsided,  like  a  wounded  bull  in  the  ring, 
dragging  us  on  top  of  him.  For  a  moment  we  lay  mo- 
tionless; then  I  heard  Beresford's  struggles  for  breath  be- 
ginning again  with  feverish,  rumbling  acceleration.  He 
had  fallen  on  the  mat  in  front  of  the  fire,  and  his  face  was 
pressed  so  close  to  the  bars  that  the  heat  must  have  been 


274  SONIA  MARRIED 

blinding  and  insupportable.  I  saw  him  trying  to  make  a 
screen  of  his  hands  and  heard  a  diabolical  laugh  from 
Grayle.  The  sound  gave  me  new  strength,  and  I  tugged  at 
my  collar  till  it  burst  away  from  the  stud  and  remained 
emptily  in  Grayle's  hands  while  I  struggled  to  my  feet. 

I  had  always  imagined  that,  however  desperate  my  plight, 
I  should  refrain  from  some  methods  of  warfare,  yet  now 
I  struck  again  and  again  at  the  wounded  knee,  I  kicked  him 
in  the  wind  and,  if  this  last  had  not  sent  him  rolling  and 
gasping  on  to  his  side,  I  believe  I  might  have  tried  to  gouge 
his  eyes  out.  It  was  the  only  time  that  I  had  ever  had  to 
fight  for  my  life;  the  instinct  to  live  was  stronger  and 
more  resourceful  than  I  had  imagined. 

As  Grayle's  fingers  relaxed,  I  pulled  Beresford  away 
from  the  fire  and  set  him  on  his  feet  with  his  back  to  the 
wall.  He  was  not  seriously  injured,  despite  the  drubbing 
from  Grayle's  stick,  and,  as  soon  as  he  could  breathe  again, 
I  saw  him  preparing  to  meet  a  fresh  attack.  My  one  hope 
was  to  escape  before  Bannerman  broke  down  the  locked 
door  and  redressed  the  balance  in  our  numbers,  before,  too, 
Grayle  had  collected  enough  wind  to  resume  hostilities. 
Without  waiting  for  my  hat  and  coat,  I  hurried  to  the  door 
leading  by  the  stone  passage  to  the  lane  and  flung  it  open, 
calling  on  Beresford  to  follow  me.  As  I  turned  on  the 
threshold,  he  made  no  sign  of  moving.  I  called  again,  tell- 
ing him  that  there  was  no  time  to  be  lost,  for  Grayle  had 
taken  his  hands  away  from  the  pit  of  his  stomach  and  was 
testing  his  leg  before  getting  up.  Beresford  also  saw  that 
no  time  was  to  be  lost,  but,  instead  of  making  for  the  door, 
he  threw  himself  on  top  of  his  antagonist  and  dug  furiously 
in  the  pocket  where  Grayle  had  so  ostentatiously  secreted 
his  bundle  of  papers. 

Though  the  struggle  was  resumed  with  more  than  all  of 
its  old  fury,  I  remember  having  another  interval  of  lucid 
detachment.  I  had  intervened  before,  because  Beresford 
was  being  murdered,  but  I  had  not  come  there  to  steal 
papers  which  did  not  belong  to  me  and  I  could  not  come 
to  his  assistance  again. 


THE  UNWRITTEN  LAW  275 

"Break  away!"  I  roared  at  them,  picking  up  my  ruler 
again  and  hitting  both  impartially. 

I  might  as  usefully  have  expended  my  energies  on  beat- 
ing the  floor.  Both  were  too  busily  engaged  to  heed  me 
until  with  a  short-arm  blow  of  well-nigh  incredible  force 
Grayle  lifted  his  assailant  into  the  air  and  dropped  him 
again  into  the  fireplace.  Then  he  scrambled  on  to  one 
knee  and  faced  me. 

"Stay  where  you  are,  or  I'll  brain  you !"  I  cried. 

He  dragged  himself  forward,  and  at  that  I  struck.  I 
was  more  frightened  than  I  have  ever  been  in  my  life 
before  or  since,  for,  if  the  phrase  have  a  meaning,  there 
was  murder  in  Grayle's  eyes  at  that  moment.  The  ruler 
came  down  on  the  top  of  his  head  with  an  echoing  crack, 
and  his  trunk  reeled.  I  hit  again,  though  my  first  blow  was 
dyeing  his  hair  crimson.  This  time  a  hand  shot  up  in  de- 
fence and  grasped  the  ruler.  I  pulled  until  I  had  dragged 
him  forward  on  his  face,  but  he  only  added  a  second  hand 
and  twisted  against  me,  as  I  had  twisted  against  him  three 
minutes  earlier.  It  was  a  question  of  seconds  before  I 
was  disarmed,  and  I  contrived  that,  as  he  possessed  himself 
of  the  weapon,  I  could  spring  to  the  far  side  of  the  writing- 
table,  ready  to  feint  and  dodge  when  he  began  the  attack. 

There  was  a  second  pause,  a  second  silence.  With  the 
same  movement  we  looked  towards  the  fireplace,  but  Beres- 
ford  was  lying  huddled  and  motionless.  Grayle  once  more 
put  his  hand  to  his  head,  once  more  raised  his  eyebrows 
when  he  brought  it  away  covered  with  blood.  Dragging  a 
chair  by  his  side  and  using  its  back  as  a  prop,  he  limped 
to  the  second  door,  pushed  it  closed  and  locked  it. 

"You  brought  this  on  yourself,"  he  whispered  in  a  voice 
that  choked  with  rage. 

In  equipment,  physical  power,  training,  endurance,  even 
in  length  of  reach,  Grayle  was  my  superior.  His  one  weak 
point  was  the  injured  knee,  and  I  concentrated  my  attack 
on  that  before  he  could  reduce  the  distance  between  us. 
Picking  up  the  first  of  the  deed-boxes  from  the  table,  I 
raised  it  above  my  head  and  discharged  it  at  his  legs.  It 


276  SONIA  MARRIED 

struck  his  feet,  I  believe;  certainly  he  staggered.  Either 
the  second  was  lighter  or  I  was  over-anxious  not  to  throw 
short  again,  for  this  time  I  hit  him  in  the  chest  and  sent 
him  stumbling  and  cursing  until  his  back  met  the  door. 
He  stooped  as  though  he  would  return  my  fire,  but  evi- 
dently saw  the  wisdom  of  not  replenishing  my  ammunition. 
I  picked  up  the  third  box,  waited  until  he  was  back  in  his 
old  position  and  then  let  fly  with  all  the  strength  that  I 
could  put  into  an  overhand  swing.  The  missile  was  too 
big  and  swift  to  avoid  easily  at  so  close  a  range,  but  Grayle 
contrived  to  make  a  bend  in  his  body,  the  box  flicked  his 
tunic  over  one  hip  and  slid  along  the  floor  until  it  bumped 
into  its  fellows  at  the  door. 

"And  now'9  said  Grayle.  "Bannerman's  out  of  ear-shot, 
and  even  the  fiendish  noise  you've  been  making  won't  bring 
anyone  to  save  you.  Before  I've  done  with  you,  I  think 
you'll  be  sorry  you  interfered  quite  so  much/' 

He  dragged  himself  and  his  chair  to  the  edge  of  the  table 
and  leaned  upon  it  with  his  fists,  gripping  the  ruler.  The 
next  moment  I  had  sprung  back,  as  he  threw  himself  for- 
ward and  aimed  a  blow  at  my  head  with  the  full  reach  and 
swing  of  his  long  body  and  arm  behind  it.  The  point  of 
the  ruler  glanced  off  the  welt  of  my  boot  and  dented  the 
oil-cloth.  Grayle  pulled  himself  back,  rested  his  hands 
again  on  the  table  and  waited,  eyeing  me  reflectively.  I 
was  coming  cautiously  back  to  my  place,  when  he  projected 
himself  suddenly  to  the  right;  I  jumped  in  the  opposite 
direction,  he  stopped,  and  we  gradually  came  back  to  our 
old  positions.  A  moment  later  he  dived  to  the  left,  but  I 
had  hardly  to  move,  for  he  was  throwing  his  weight  on  to 
a  leg  which  would  not  bear  it.  The  next  plunge  was  to 
the  right,  and  this  time  he  made  a  half-circle  of  the  table 
until  each  of  us  was  occupying  the  other's  stance.  With 
these  tactics  I  could  keep  him  at  bay  for  as  long  as  I  liked ; 
and  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  realised  it.  While  he  panted 
and  looked  round  him,  I  turned  my  head  for  an  instant  to 
see  whether  he  had  left  the  key  in  the  door.  The  one 
table-lamp,  however,  threw  a  yellow  circle  of  quavering 


THE  UNWRITTEN  LAW  277 

light  over  the  middle  of  the  room  and  left  the  extremities 
in  shadow.  Whether  Grayle  divined  my  thoughts,  whether 
he  even  noticed  or  understood  my  action,  I  cannot  say,  but 
the  next  moment  I  received  a  violent  blow  on  the  thighs 
and  was  hard  put  to  it  to  keep  my  balance,  as  the  table, 
furiously  impelled  by  him,  careered  madly  towards  the 
door,  pinning  my  legs  and  holding  me,  as  though  I  were 
buried  to  the  waist,  to  await  his  attack. 

He  gave  himself  a  moment  to  draw  breath  and  enjoy  his 
triumph.  The  murderous  blow  which  had  just  missed  me 
never  left  his  intentions  in  doubt,  but  in  that  moment  he 
gave  me  time  to  use  the  last  and  only  weapon  left  to  me. 
Snatching  the  big  lamp,  which  flared  afresh  at  my  grasp, 
I  raised  it  aloft  and  brought  it  with  a  crash  and  tinkle 
on  to  his  head.  For  some  time  I  could  not  understand 
what  had  happened,  for  the  room  seemed  in  darkness  and 
yet  brighter  than  before.  By  the  dancing  light  of  the 
fire  I  saw  that  Grayle  had  disappeared ;  and  the  table  yielded 
when  I  pushed  against  it.  Then  a  blaze  of  yellow  sprang 
up  in  front  of  me,  and  I  caught  sight  of  him  lying  on  his 
back  with  a  flood  of  burning  oil  spreading  over  his  clothes, 
lapping  the  disorder  of  books  and  papers  which  we  had 
tumbled  on  to  the  floor  and  licking  the  border  of  the 
Japanese  mats.  How  much  I  had  injured  him  with  the 
lamp  I  could  not  see ;  he  was  clasping  his  head  with  one 
hand  and  still  gripping  the  ruler  with  the  other. 

"Grayle,  pull  yourself  together,  man!"  I  cried,  as  though 
by  raising  my  voice  I  could  penetrate  his  unconsciousness. 

In  a  moment  the  flames  would  be  pouring  over  his  neck 
and  face;  in  five  minutes,  if  the  petrol  cans  were  reached, 
the  whole  lath-and-plaster  shanty  would  be  a  roaring  and 
crackling  furnace.  I  had  to  extricate  Beresford  and  Grayle 
or  rouse  them  to  extricate  themselves — and  I  discovered 
that  my  body  was  trembling  from  the  excitement  of  the 
duel  and  that  my  head  was  aching  savagely.  I  had  hardly 
found  time  to  think  of  my  injuries  until  then ;  to  think  of 
anything,  indeed,  but  the  next  thrust  or  parry;  I  had  no 
idea  how  long  the  engagement  had  lasted — and  was  aston- 


278  SONIA  MARRIED 

ished  to  find  that  less  than  twelve  minutes  had  passed  since 
Grayle  first  entered  the  room. 

"Pull  yourself  together!"  I  cried  again,  looking  for  my 
overcoat  to  wrap  round  him  and  smother  the  flames.  In 
the  unevenly  distributed  light  I  could  not  see  it.  The  oil 
was  sinking  into  the  closely  woven  tunic  instead  of  flaring 
itself  out  on  the  surface,  and  above  the  pungent  smell  of 
hot  petroleum  rose  the  more  pungent  smell  of  singeing 
cloth.  I  caught  him  by  the  arm  and  tried  to  drag  him 
towards  the  door,  but  at  my  touch  the  body  subconsciously 
grew  rigid.  I  pulled  again,  and  this  time  he  opened  his 
eyes,  frowned  uncomprehendingly  at  me  and  then  stared 
at  his  blazing  clothes  with  the  stupid  wonder  of  a  drunken 
man  trying  to  remember  how  he  came  to  his  present 
plight. 

"Water !"  I  roared.    "Where  shall  I  find  water  ?" 

He  looked  up  at  me  and  the  expression  of  wonder  gave 
place  to  dawning  recollection.  In  another  moment  his  face 
was  transformed.  I  was  still  holding  one  arm,  and  he 
allowed  himself  to  be  pulled  to  a  sitting  posture.  Then 
leaving  the  flames  to  shoot  vertically  on  to  his  neck  and  face, 
he  swung  the  ruler  for  a  last  blow  on  the  side  of  my  head. 
I  remember  that  I  saw  it  coming;  one's  moods  change  so 
quickly  that  I  was  aghast  to  find  Grayle  still  intent  on  mur- 
der when  I  had  forgotten  all  that  nonsense  and  only  wanted 
to  help  him.  It  was  so  ungrateful.  .  .  .  And  it  was  so 
incredible!  I  did  not  even  let  go  his  arm  or  relax  my 
efforts.  .  .  . 

The  ruler  struck  where  my  head  was  already  soft  and 
bruised  from  its  late  banging  against  Beresford's.  I  felt 
my  knees  slowly  bending,  my  body  gently  collapsing.  Five 
and  thirty  years  before  a  party  of  second-year  men  had 
decided  that  no  one's  education  was  complete  until  he  had 
once  at  least  had  experience  of  intoxication.  I  was  plied 
with  a  very  great  deal  of  liquor,  very  scientifically  mixed ; 
and  I  remember  watching  for  the  danger-signals  of  on- 
coming inebriation.  Throughout  the  evening  I  could  think 
rationally  and  speak  clearly;  I  was  neither  excited  nor 


THE  UNWRITTEN  LAW  279 

noisy,  neither  elated  nor  depressed.  I  even  played  a  game 
of  whist,  I  believe,  and  won  a  few  shillings  from  my  host. 
The  parting  brandy  and  soda,  however,  hit  me  like  a  bat- 
tering-ram; I  subsided  on  the  ground  with  every  muscle 
limp  and,  to  my  shame,  crawled  downstairs  and  across  the 
court  on  hands  and  knees.  When  Grayle's  ruler  brought 
me  down,  the  same  partial  paralysis  of  brain  and  body 
must  have  taken  place.  I  remember  lying  on  my  back  with 
my  knees  in  the  air,  I  remember  turning  on  one  side  and 
raising  myself  on  my  hands;  I  remember  crawling  with 
vast  preoccupation  to  the  door,  feeling  for  the  key,  turn- 
ing it  and,  as  I  hope  to  be  saved,  noticing  my  skill  in  going 
down  the  short  flight  of  steps  on  all  fours  without  pitch- 
ing forward  on  to  my  head  in  the  passage. 

Outside  in  the  lane  I  paused  to  take  breath  and  test  my 
strength.  By  leaning  against  the  wall  I  could  draw  myself 
upright  and  follow  a  stumbling  course  into  the  Brompton 
Road.  A  girl  walking  by  on  a  soldier's  arm  pointed  at  me 
and  tittered;  an  elderly  woman  paused  to  exclaim  "Dis- 
gusting!" Otherwise  no  one  took  any  interest  in  the 
absorbing  story  which  I  could  have  told  him — the  fight, 
the  fire.  ...  I  turned  round,  all  but  over-balancing,  to 
see  whether  the  wooden  work-room  was  yet  burned  down ; 
to  my  amazement  there  was  no  sign  of  a  single  flame.  Was 
that  because  you  were  not  allowed  to  shew  lights  owing 
to  the  war?  There  was  a  war;  someone  had  told  me,  or 
I  had  dreamed  it — or  else  I  was  astonishingly  drunk.  .  .  . 
Was  I  really  trying  to  crawl  home  from  Mark  Golds- 
worthy's  rooms  in  King's?  If  so,  I  must  have  been  drunk 
for  a  very  long  time,  for  I  had  been  dreaming  all  sorts  of 
things — dreaming  that  I  had  gone  down  from  Cambridge, 
that  I  had  done  this  and  that,  that  I  was  an  elderly  man. 
...  It  had  been  so  vivid,  this  life-story  which  I  had 
dreamed  in  a  few  seconds,  that  I  could  see  again  the  bluest 
water  in  the  world,  which  I  knew  to  be  the  Caribbean  Sea, 
though  no  one  could  possibly  have  told  me;  and  the  ap- 
proach to  Colon  (what  other  name  could  it  have?)  .  .  . 

Then  I  felt  overpoweringly  sick,  but  what  else  was  to 


280  SONIA  MARRIED 

be  expected  when  Mark  Goldsworthy  had  laid  himself 
out  to  make  me  drunk  ?  It  was  curious  that  I  should  have 
been  dining  with  him  that  night,  because  I  knew  that  he 
had  been  killed  years  later  at  Omdurman;  or  would  be. 
Did  he  know?  It  was  an  astounding  piece  of  second-sight, 
if  I  knew  the  name  of  the  battle  before  it  took  place.  .  .  . 
And  how  dreadful  for  poor  Mark,  who  had  been  at  my 
tutor's !  He  was  going  to  be  killed  accidentally,  shot  in  the 
back  by  one  of  his  own  men  who  had  been  wounded.  I 
must  never  tell  him  of  course.  .  .  .  And  how  absurd  it 
would  all  seem  when  I  awoke,  but  at  the  moment  it  was  so 
real  that  I  could  not  help  believing  it.  ...  Could  I  or 
could  I  not  get  on  to  my  feet  before  I  came  to  the  gate? 
It  would  look  so  bad  if  I  were  found  bestially  drunk  before 
I  had  been  a  week  at  Cambridge.  Perhaps,  if  I  hailed  a 
taxi  and  got  inside  and  curled  myself  up  on  the  floor,  we 
could  drive  out  of  college  unseen.  It  was  worth  try- 
ing. .  .  . 

"Take  me  to  the  House  of  Commons,  please,"  I  said. 

The  man  stared  at  me  and  laughed  insolently.  I  was 
so  tired  that  I  could  hardly  resent  his  manner. 

"I'll  pay  you  now,  if  that's  what  you  mean/'  I  said;  and, 
feeling  in  my  pocket,  I  took  out  two  half-crowns  and 
closed  the  discussion  by  entering  the  cab.  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  laughed  again  and  pulled  down  the  flag 
of  his  meter;  it  was  the  last  movement  of  which  I  was 
conscious  until  he  opened  the  door  and  jerked  out  over  his 
shoulder, 

"Here's  the  House  of  Commons." 

We  were  by  the  entrance  to  the  yard.  I  got  out  and 
asked  him  how  much  the  fare  was. 

"You've  paid  me  once,"  he  answered  with  a  mixture  of 
sympathy,  cynical  amusement  and  sluggish  concern. 
"You've  been  knocking  about  a  bit,  you  have." 

I  turned  away  and  walked  unsteadily  along  Millbank.  I 
suppose  my  brain  was  about  three  parts  clear  by  now;  I 
no  longer  fancied  myself  to  be  leaving  an  undergraduate 
debauch  of  thirty-five  years  before.  Somewhere  and  some- 


THE  UNWRITTEN  LAW  281 

how  that  night  I  had  met  with  severe  physical  injuries; 
Grayle  was  involved  in  it — and  Beresford — and  a  strong 
smell  of  singeing,  but  my  head  was  aching  too  much  to 
let  me  think  consecutively.  I  wanted  to  lie  down  and  close 
my  eyes,  I  would  have  lain  down  on  the  pavement  but  for 
the  rain  (and  I  had  lost  hat,  collar  and  coat  at  some  point 
in  this  nightmare  evening)  .  .  .  but  for  the  rain  and  the 
risk  of  being  thought  drunk.  Anyone  but  a  fool  would 
have  turned  the  head  of  the  taxi  and  driven  home ;  I  knew 
the  hotel — though  I  could  not  give  it  a  name,  and  the  num- 
ber of  my  room ;  but  I  could  only  think  of  one  thing  at  a 
time  and  I  longed  before  everything  else  to  lie  down  on  one 
of  those  long  sofas  in  "The  Sanctuary"  .  .  .  which  was 
so  near,  too. 

Some  time  later  I  remember  standing  with  my  watch  in 
my  hand,  trying  to  strike  a  match  against  a  wet  lamp- 
post. 

Later  still  George  Oakleigh  was  bending  over  me  and  try- 
ing to  carry  me  from  the  door-step  into  the  house.  He  was 
in  pyjamas,  an  overcoat  and  slippers ;  I  cracked  some  feeble 
joke  about  his  hair,  which  was  unwontedly  disordered ;  then 
I  saw  that  I  was  speaking  in  atrocious  taste,  because  poor 
George  had  been  in  bed  and  asleep,  and  I  had  unfeelingly 
disturbed  him.  I  apologised,  and  he  said  that  it  was  of  no 
consequence,  but  I  had  to  apologise  again  and  again,  be- 
cause I  could  not  let  him  be  so  magnanimous  and,  moreover, 
I  was  not  at  all  sure  that  he  was  accepting  the  apology. 
.  .  .  He  told  me  that  I  was  ill  and  must  not  excite  myself. 
To  shew  him  that  I  was  not  ill,  I  struggled  to  my  feet  and 
walked  into  the  house. 

"No  bones  broken,"  he  muttered.  "Lie  down,  while  I  get 
you  some  brandy.  Is  Matthews  still  your  doctor?" 

"I  don't  want  a  doctor,  George,"  I  said.  "I  shall  be  all 
right  when  I've  rested  a  bit." 

He  gave  me  nearly  half  a  tumbler  of  neat  brandy.  As 
I  drank  it,  I  experienced  the  most  curious  sensation  of 
my  life;  as  though  a  thick  cloth  had  been  tied  round  my 
brain,  I  now  felt  it  being  gently  withdrawn.  I  saw  the  room 


282  SONIA  MARRIED 

steadily  and  could  tell  George  not  to  look  so  anxious ;  I  re- 
membered the  forgotten  chapters  of  the  night,  even  to 
the  last  stumble  when  I  fell  on  the  door-step  and  beat  on 
the  panels  with  my  fists  until  I  became  unconscious.  Piece 
by  piece  my  memory  reconstructed  the  changing  scene;  I 
wondered  what  had  happened  to  Grayle  and  Beresford, 
whether  the  fire  had  been  put  out,  what  people  were  think- 
ing. .  .  . 

I  was  too  warm  and  drowsy  to  wonder  long,  but  I  re- 
member saying  very  distinctly  and,  as  I  thought,  impres- 
sively, 

"Don't  get  a  doctor  to  me,  George;  and  don't  let  any- 
one know  I'm  here." 

Then  I  dropped  asleep. 


George  came  into  the  library  next  morning  on  his  way 
to  the  Admiralty.  I  was  awake,  because  after  an  hour  or 
two  of  sleep  the  physical  exhaustion  which  made  it  pos- 
sible gave  place  to  physical  discomfort  which  effectually 
banished  it.  My  head  had  a  collection  of  dull,  throbbing 
pains  which  played  for  a  while,  each  by  itself  on  its  ap- 
pointed spot,  and  then  joined  hands  and  danced  in  a  ring 
with  an  initial  kick-off  under  my  swollen  right  ear;  over 
the  forehead  they  went  and  under  the  back  of  the  eyes, 
scampering  to  the  nape  of  the  neck,  drawing  breath  and 
toe-ing  and  heeling  it  to  the  starting  place  once  more.  I  had 
a  basin  of  water  by  my  sofa  and  relays  of  handkerchiefs 
which  I  dipped  and  spread  over  my  temples,  but  by  three 
o'clock  my  arms  had  stiffened  until  I  could  not  bear  to 
move  them,  and  I  spent  the  remainder  of  the  night  turn- 
ing from  side  to  back  and  from  back  to  side,  trying  to  find 
some  surface  of  my  body  which  did  not  feel  as  if  the 
bones  were  running  through  the  flesh. 

"I  told  Bertrand  you  were  here,"  George  said,  "and  the 
housekeeper,  of  course.  But  she  won't  say  anything.  How 
you  got  yourself  into  that  condition " 

He  broke  off  and  smiled  at  my  cuts  and  bruises.    Later 


THE  UNWRITTEN  LAW  283 

in  the  day,  when  I  got  a  chance  of  looking  at  myself  in  a 
mirror,  I  could  forgive  his  smile. 

"It's  a  long  story,  George/'  I  said.  "Leave  it  till  my 
liead  feels  a  bit  clearer.  And,  once  more,  don't  tell  any- 
one I'm  here.  At  the  present  time  I  don't  quite  know  what 
my  civic  status  is,  whether  I'm  a  fugitive  from  justice  or 
what.  Have  you  seen  the  papers?  Is  there  anything  that 
you  can  fit  me  into?" 

"I  only  had  time  to  read  the  war  news,"  he  answered. 
"Look  here,  I've  given  orders  for  a  bed  to  be  made  up  in 
Raney's  room,  and  we'll  shift  you,  as  soon  as  you  feel  like 
moving.  Is  there  anything  else  you'd  care  for?" 

"The  one  thing  I  want  is  the  papers,"  I  said. 

They  were  brought  me  ten  minutes  later  by  Bertrand, 
who  strolled  into  the  library,  raised  his  eye-brows  and 
withdrew  his  cigar  long  enough  to  give  a  short  whistle  of 
surprise. 

"You're  a  pretty  sight,"  he  chuckled.  "George  said  you 
wanted  these.  I  suppose  you've  been  fighting  the  police 
and  want  to  see  if  they're  advertising  a  description  of 
you." 

I  hunted  through  the  main  news  sheets,  losing  myself 
in  columns  of  official  communiques  and  unofficial  cabinet- 
making,  before  I  was  rewarded  with  a  four-line  para- 
graph :— 

"Accident  to  Well-known  M.P.,"  I  read,  and  under- 
neath the  heading, 

J"A  fire  broke  out  last  evening  in  the  house  of  Lieutenant-Colonel 
Vincent  Grayle,  M.P.,  in  Milford  Square.  It  is  not  known  how  the 
conflagration  originated  and,  at  the  time  of  going  to  press,  it  is  not 
possible  to  gauge  the  amount  of  damage  done.  We  regret  to  say 
that  Colonel  Grayle  has  sustained  severe  injuries,  which  might 
easily  have  proved  fatal.  His  condition  is  critical,  and  it  is  feared 
that  there  may  have  been  actual  loss  of  life." 

I  put  my  thumb  against  the  paragraph,  handed  it  to 
Bertrand  and  resumed  my  search.  The  "Times"  and 
"Morning  Post"  contained  no  reference  to  the  fire,  but  the 
late  London  edition  of  the  "Daily  Gazette"  gave  me  plenti- 


284  SONIA  MARRIED 

ful  reading  matter  and  rich  food  for  reflection.  There 
was  a  title,  sub-title,  headings  to  the  paragraphs  and  a 
column  and  three-quarters  of  close,  descriptive  print.  It 
opened  promisingly  with  "Tragedy  in  M.P.'s  House"  and 
progressed  through  "Mystery  Fire  in  Milford  Square"  to 
an  account  which  must  have  been  supplied  two-thirds  by 
Bannerman  and  the  rest  by  the  constable  who  had  directed 
me  to  the  studio  in  the  lane.  Grayle's  physical  state  or 
the  delicacy  of  his  position  had  kept  him  from  contributing 
anything. 

The  narrative,  so  far  as  I  remember  it,  ran  on  these 
lines.  Mr.  Guy  Bannerman,  who  acted  as  secretary  to 
Colonel  Grayle,  had  been  reading  in  the  smoking-room  and 
went  upstairs  at  about  eleven  o'clock.  His  bedroom  looked 
on  to  a  strip  of  garden,  and  in  making  the  window  secure 
he  had  observed  that  the  curtains  in  the  wooden  loft  over 
the  garage  were  on  fire.  After  telephoning  to  the  fire  bri- 
gade, he  had  seized  a  jug  of  water,  hurried  into  the  garden 
and  tried  to  force  his  way  into  the  loft.  The  door  was 
locked  on  the  inside,  however,  and  he  had  to  run  back  and 
round  to  a  second  door  opening  on  to  a  lane  at  right  angles 
to  the  Brompton  Road.  The  room,  when  at  last  he  got 
into  it,  was  a  sea  of  fire.  Some  years  earlier  it  had  been 
roughly  fitted  up  as  a  work-room  and  was  filled  with  books, 
loose  papers  and  maps.  There  was  nothing  to  shew  how  the 
fire  had  started  nor  how  long  it  had  been  going  on,  but  the 
papers  on  the  floor,  the  table-cloth  and  curtains,  several 
straw  mats  and  a  fur  hearth-rug  were  blazing.  However 
it  had  started,  its  destructive  course  had  been  materially 
assisted  by  the  oil  from  a  big  lamp  which  had  been  over- 
turned and  broken.  By  the  door  the  flames  were  fortu- 
nately less  fierce  than  at  the  far  end  of  the  room,  or  Ban- 
nerman would  have  been  unable  to  enter.  He  emptied  his 
jug  in  front  of  him,  ran  down  and  refilled  it  from  the 
garage,  emptied,  filled  and  emptied  it  again  until  the  fire 
had  been  driven  back  a  few  yards.  It  was  now  possible  for 
the  first  time  to  see  through  the  glare  of  the  flames,  and  he 
was  horrified  to  catch  sight  of  Grayle's  body  lying  mo- 


THE  UNWRITTEN  LAW  285 

tionless  half  under  the  table.  Dragging  him  to  the  door, 
he  was  about  to  carry  him  downstairs  when  he  observed 
a  second  body  on  the  far  side  of  the  fire-place.  Then  he  re- 
membered that  two  men  had  called  to  see  Colonel  Grayle 
on  business  half  an  hour  before ;  he  had  assumed  that  they 
must  have  left  before  the  fire  broke  out,  as  it  was  incon- 
ceivable that  three  men  should  have  been  unable  to  conquer 
the  flames  at  the  outset. 

After  carrying  Grayle  into  the  garage,  Bannerman  re- 
turned for  the  second  victim,  whom  he  recognised  as  a 
young  man  named  Beresford.  Of  the  third  there  was  no 
sign  in  the  front  half  of  the  room,  and  he  had  to  go  for 
more  water.  The  wooden  walls  had  now  caught  fire,  the 
book-cases  and  chairs  were  smouldering  and  the  oilcloth 
had  blistered  and  cracked  and  was  smoking  ominously.  A 
very  few  minutes'  work  were  to  shew  him  that  one  man 
armed  with  one  bedroom  jug  could  not  even  keep  the 
flames  from  spreading.  He  ran  backwards  and  forwards 
drenching  the  floor  with  water,  but  never  clearing  a  path 
sufficient  to  allow  of  his  advancing  more  than  a  third  of 
the  way  into  the  room.  When  the  fire-engines  arrived,  the 
flames  had  eaten  through  the  walls  and  were  licking  the 
wooden  gables  of  the  roof;  they  had  licked  to  so  great 
effect  that  the  first  jet  of  water  brought  down  a  cascade 
of  tiles  and  charred  rafters. 

While  the  hoses  played,  Bannerman  looked  to  the  men 
whom  he  had  succeeded  in  carrying  out.  Grayle  was  alive 
and  breathing  faintly,  though  his  clothes  fell  away  in  hand- 
fuls  of  black  ash  at  the  first  touch,  and  his  face  and  head 
were  shockingly  burnt  and  disfigured.  Beresford  gave  no 
sign  of  life.  His  hair  was  signed  and  blackened  where  he 
had  fallen  on  his  face  against  the  bars  of  the  grate;  his 
clothes  were  as  much  charred  as  Grayle's,  but  his  body 
was  almost  unmarked,  save  for  a  bruise  over  the  heart,  no 
doubt  from  contact  with  the  point  of  the  fender.  Death 
was  probably  due  to  asphyxiation;  this  was  the  unofficial 
opinion  of  the  doctor,  pending  the  inquest.  Partial  and 
temporary  asphyxiation,  indeed,  was  the  only  explanation 


286  SONIA  MARRIED 

why  the  three  men  had  not  either  put  out  the  flames  or  es- 
caped from  the  burning  room. 

There  remained  the  second  visitor,  and,  as  soon  as  the 
fire  had  been  put  out,  Bannerman  returned  to  the  loft.  By 
the  light  of  a  stable  lantern,  it  was  possible  to  make  a  cau- 
tious search.  Three-quarters  of  the  roof  had  disappeared, 
burnt  away  or  fallen  in  heaps  of  broken  tiles  and  black- 
ened timber  on  the  floor  or  in  the  garden ;  the  walls  on  two 
sides,  the  floor  at  one  end  had  disappeared  equally.  On 
what  remained  lay  a  pile  of  charred  table  legs  and  chair 
backs,  broken  glass  and  blistered  deed-boxes,  scorched 
books  and  odd,  unidentified  metal  fastenings  and  joints, 
the  whole  dripping  and  lapped  with  sinister  black  water. 
Bannerman  explored  every  inch  of  the  wreckage  and  re- 
turned to  the  garage  empty-handed.  At  the  end,  where  the 
ceiling  had  fallen  in,  a  smaller  pile  of  wreckage  reared  itself 
fantastically  on  a  platform  of  petrol  cans.  A  revolving 
book-case  and  a  filing  cabinet,  charred  but  intact,  were 
half  buried  under  broken  tiles  and  blackened  volumes  of 
Parliamentary  Debates;  a  stout  table  leg  and  a  small  safe 
lay  further  away;  and  there  was  the  reeking  half  of  a 
burnt  fur-coat. 

My  interest  in  the  "Daily  Gazette"  narrative  quickened 
at  this  point.  Mr.  Bannerman  had  admitted  Beresford  and 
another  (whose  name  was  not  given).  They  had  tried 
the  front  door — unsuccessfully,  because  all  the  servants 
were  out  for  the  night.  A  constable  had  suggested  their 
going  round  to  the  door  in  the  lane;  they  had  entered; 
there  was  no  hint  that  one  had  left  before  the  other.  No 
doubt  in  a  few  hours  negative  proof  would  be  forthcom- 
ing, but,  until  that  appeared,  or  until  a  further  examina- 
tion could  be  made,  it  was  possible  that  the  second  visitor 
had  been  a  second  victim. 

"I'm  afraid  we've  seen  the  last  of  young  Beresford,"  I 
said  to  Bertrand. 

"What's  happened  to  him?"  he  asked. 

"You  haven't  read  this  yet?"  I  said.  "Well,  wait  till 
George  comes  back  at  lunch-time,  and  I'll  tell  you  the 


THE  UNWRITTEN  LAW  287 

whole  story.  I  rather  fancy  that  a  good  many  people  have 
seen  the  last  of  me.  I  say,  Bertrand,  have  you  ever  been 
present  at  a  cremation?" 

He  looked  at  me  sorrowfully. 

"I  should  have  thought  you'd  had  enough  trouble  for 
one  night,"  he  said. 

"I  have,  I  can  assure  you.  But  my  career  of  crime  is  in 
its  infancy — I'll  explain  all  this  at  lunch ; — I  want  to  know 
what  sort  of  fire  it  takes  to  consume  a  human  body  so 

that  there's  no  trace  of  flesh,  blood,  hair,  bone,  clothing 
t) 

"God  knows!"  he  interrupted.  "You'd  better  ring  up 
Brookwood." 

"I  don't  think  I'm  likely  ever  to  ring  up  anyone  again," 
I  said — rather  rashly. 

Some  while  before  his  usual  hour  George  hurried  in  with 
a  scared  expression  and  wondering,  wide-open  eyes.  He 
was  carrying  the  mid-day  editions  of  two  or  three  evening 
papers,  and  I  saw  that  I  should  not  have  to  explain  much 
after  all.  The  only  point  of  interest  to  me  was  that  Colonel 
Grayle  was  not  yet  in  a  position  to  give  any  account  of 
what  had  happened. 

"And,  until  he  does,"  I  told  Bertrand  and  George,  "I 
propose  to  keep  quiet,  too.  You  see,  there's  unfortunately 
no  doubt  that  he  and  I  each  tried  to  kill  the  other  and  be- 
tween us  we've  succeeded  in  killing  Beresford,  though  I 
can't  say  for  certain  if  it  was  asphyxiation  or  the  blow  on 
the  heart.  I'm  responsible  for  that  fire.  When  I  see  what 
story  Grayle  puts  up,  I  shall  be  better  able  to  decide." 

It  was  not  going  to  be  an  easy  explanation  to  frame,  and 
the  papers  were  already  beginning  to  wonder  how  two,  and 
perhaps  three,  grown  men  could  be  imprisoned  in  a  room 
with  two  doors,  one  of  them  unlocked.  If  Bannerman 
could  get  in  some  time  later,  they  could  have  got  out  some 
time  earlier.  I  was  only  wondering  why  Bannerman  had 
suppressed  my  name;  did  Grayle  think  that  he  had  two 
lives  on  his  conscience? 

The  evening  papers  gave  a  better  account  of  him,  though 


288  SONIA  MARRIED 

he  was  still  too  weak  to  satisfy  the  curiosity  of  the  re- 
porters. They  also  reminded  their  readers  of  his  politi- 
cal career  and  the  possibility  of  his  being  included  in  the 
new  government. 

"Have  you  thought  out  your  own  position?"  Bertrand 
asked  me  uneasily,  throwing  aside  his  paper. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  have,"  I  answered.  "I'd  sooner 
leave  Grayle  to  explain." 

"H'm.  You  came  here,  stayed  here — as  much  knocked 
about  as  you  please,  raving,  unconscious.  But,  when  every- 
one in  London's  asking  how  the  fire  broke  out,  no  one  in 
the  house  can  find  a  word  to  say." 

"If  Grayle's  unconscious,  I'm  unconscious,"  I  answered. 
"He  can  invent  the  explanation  of  the  fire,  and  I'll  stand 
by  what  he  says." 

Bertrand  sat  heavily  on  the  foot  of  my  bed  with  an- ex- 
pression of  obvious  dissatisfaction. 

"Every  hour  you  stay  here " 

"I  don't  pretend  that  it's  ideal,"  I  interrupted.  "But  I 
shall  wait  for  Grayle." 

I  was  not  allowed  to  wait  for  Grayle.  And,  if  neither 
Bertrand  nor  I  were  satisfied  with  my  silence,  we  had  no 
reason  to  be  more  satisfied  when  I  broke  it.  Yet  I  hardly 
see  how  I  could  help  myself  and  I  am  sure  that  on  balance 
I  do  not  regret  my  action.  The  morning  papers  next  day 
added  little  to  the  established  facts  and  wide-ranging  guess- 
work of  the  evening  before,  though,  as  a  humane  man,  I 
was  glad  to  see  that  Colonel  Grayle's  progress  was  as 
satisfactory  as  could  be  expected.  There  was  a  brief  re- 
port of  the  inquest  on  Beresford — death  by  misadventure, 
with  asphyxiation  as  the  immediate  cause,  unsatisfied  won- 
der on  the  Coroner's  part  that  such  a  fire  could  have  taken 
place,  coupled  with  regret  that  Colonel  Grayle  was  not 
well  enough  to  give  evidence.  Of  greater  interest  to  me 
was  an  obviously  inspired  hint  that  a  new  department  was 
to  be  formed  for  the  control  of  recruiting  and  that  Grayle 
was  likely  to  be  made  its  head.  If  the  announcement  lacked 
novelty,  its  setting  did  not ;  for  the  first  time  Grayle's  own 


THE  UNWRITTEN  LAW  289 

paper — he  subsidised  it,  if  he  did  not  in  fact  own  the  con- 
trolling majority  of  the  shares — accepted  responsibility  for 
the  forecast. 

I  read  the  announcement  about  eleven  in  the  morning.  I 
thought  over  it  for  perhaps  half  an  hour.  Then  an  idea 
came  to  me,  which  I  was  powerless  to  resist.  Without  con- 
sidering its  effect  on  him  or  on  myself,  without  thinking 
of  anything  but  that  I  meant  to  do  this,  had  to  do  this, 
I  crawled  out  of  bed  and  made  my  way  painfully  down- 
stairs to  the  library.  I  was  astonishingly  weak  in  body  and 
I  have  good  reason  now  to  think  that  I  was  a  little  light- 
headed at  the  time,  but  I  am  not  looking  for  excuses.  When 
I  had  made  sure  that  I  had  the  library  to  myself,  I  dragged 
two  very  stiff  legs  to  the  writing-table  at  the  far  end,  sat 
down  and  asked  for  Grayle's  number  on  the  telephone.  It 
was  repeated  to  me,  and  I  realised  for  the  first  time  that  I 
had  not  yet  decided  what  to  say.  And,  before  I  could 
collect  my  thoughts,  a  woman's  voice  was  exclaiming  rather 
impatiently, 

"Hullo!     Yes!    Hullo!" 

"I  want  to  speak  to  Colonel  Grayle,"  I  said. 

"I'm  sorry  to  say  Colonel  Grayle  is  ill." 

"It's  essential  that  I  should  speak  to  him.  Will  you 
please  have  me  put  through  to  his  room?" 

There  was  a  perceptible  pause,  and  I  chose  to  fancy 
that  my  voice  had  sounded  impressive. 

"Er,  who  shall  I  say  it  is?"  she  asked. 

"It  will  be  enough,  if  you  say  that  it's  very  urgent." 

"I  don't  know  that  he's  well  enough  to  speak.  Are  you 
sure  you  can't  give  me  a  message  ?" 

"If  he's  well  enough  to  take  a  message  from  you,  he's 
well  enough  to  listen  to  it  from  me.  Please  be  as  quick 
as  you  can." 

The  pause  this  time  was  longer,  there  were  mysterious 
metallic  clicks  and  buzzes ;  then  a  man's  voice  said, 

"Hullo?" 

"Is  that  Grayle?"  I  asked. 

"Yes.    Who's  speaking?" 


290  SONIA  MARRIED 

As  he  had  not  recognised  my  voice,  I  could  leave  recog- 
nition or  avowal  to  come  later. 

"It's  about  this  announcement,  Grayle,"  I  went  on. 

"Who  is  speaking?"  he  asked  again  with  growing  irri- 
tation. 

"Your  appointment,  I  mean.  You  know  what  will  hap- 
pen, if  you  take  it ;  you  can't  say  you  haven't  been  warned. 
I  suggest  that,  before  it's  too  late " 

Faintly,  as  though  the  sound  were  coming  through  cot- 
ton wool,  I  heard  a  muffled  cry.  I  waited,  but  there  was  no 
other  sound. 

"Grayle?"  I  began  again. 

But  there  was  still  no  sound. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN 

THE  DOOR  RE-OPENED 

".  .  .  Naaman  came  with  his  horses  and  with  his  chariot,  and 
stood  at  the  door  of  the  house  of  Elisha. 

And  Elisha  sent  a  messenger  unto  him,  saying,  Go  and  wash  in 
Jordan  seven  times,  and  thy  flesh  shall  come  again  to  thee,  and 
thou  shalt  be  clean. 

But  Naaman  was  wroth,  and  went  away,  and  said,  Behold,  I 
thought,  He  will  surely  come  out  to  me,  and  stand,  and  call  on  the 
name  of  the  Lord  his  God,  and  strike  his  hand  over  the  place,  and 
recover  the  leper. 

Are  not  Abana  ard  Pharpar,  rivers  of  Damascus,  better  than  all 
the  waters  of  Israel .  may  I  not  wash  in  them,  and  be  clean  .  .  .  ?" 

II  KINGS  5 : 9-12. 


WHEN  a  man  has  crossed  the  water-shed  of  forty,  his 
power  of  recuperation  is  sorrily  reduced.  Perhaps  he  suc- 
cumbs less  easily  to  illness  or  injury,  the  bruises  may  take 
longer  to  shew  themselves,  but  they  also  take  far  longer 
to  disappear. 

I  found  this  literally  and  metaphorically  true  during  the 
weeks  when  I  lay  at  "The  Sanctuary."  After  my  one 
painful  descent  to  the  telephone,  I  returned  to  bed  and 
stayed  there  for  a  month.  One  part  of  my  body  after 
another  swelled  and  changed  colour;  I  was  pitifully  weak, 
and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  my  nerves  seemed  to  have 
gone  limp.  The  memory  of  my  fight  with  Grayle  haunted 
me,  I  could  not  concentrate  my  mind  on  anything  and  I 
lacked  the  native  buoyancy  to  want  to  get  well.  Bertrand 
and  George  were  obviously  anxious,  but  even  to  oblige  them 
I  could  not  put  forth  strength  which  was  not  in  me;  the 
weeks  rolled  by,  and  I  remained  a  listless  and,  I  am  afraid, 
an  exacting  and  irritable  invalid. 

291 


292  SONIA  MARRIED 

As  my  name  had  not  been  published,  as  I  could  in  fact 
plead  serious  ill-health  at  the  time  of  the  inquest  on  Beres- 
ford,  I  saw  no  purpose  in  thrusting  myself  on  the  public 
until  I  knew  what  explanation  Grayle  proposed  to  give. 
Curious  enquirers  were  simply  informed  that  I  had  met 
with  an  accident.  In  the  early  days  we  used  to  watch 
the  bulletins  of  Grayle's  health  and  the  formation  of  the 
new  government  in  parallel  columns ;  and  the  second  made 
more  rapid  progress  than  the  first.  The  chief  offices  were 
allotted,  one  after  another,  and  the  minor  positions  down 
to  the  last  Junior  Lordship  of  the  Treasury;  at  the  be- 
ginning it  was  occasionally  stated  that  "at  one  time  Colonel 
Grayle's  name  was  mentioned  in  connection  with"  this  or 
that  or  the  other  appointment ;  gradually  the  references  to 
him  became  rarer  until  his  own  paper  wrote  his  political 
epitaph  and  announced  with  conventional  regret  that,  while 
the  Prime  Minister  was  believed  to  have  been  hoping  to 
make  use  of  his  services,  his  present  condition  of  health 
put  the  acceptance  of  any  office  out  of  the  question. 

Bertrand  smiled  grimly,  as  he  shewed  me  the  paragraph, 
but  I  was  impatiently  waiting  until  Grayle's  condition  of 
health  enabled  him  to  give  me  a  lead.  It  came  at  last 
through  the  medium  of  Bertrand  on  a  night  when  he  had 
been  dining  at  the  House  and  had  seen  Grayle  for  the  first 
time  since  the  fire.  I  am  a  tolerably  humane  man  and, 
though  I  had  struck  upon  provocation  and  in  defence  of 
my  own  life,  I  regretted  the  state  to  which  I  had  reduced 
my  opponent.  He  now  walked  with  two  crutches  and  a 
sling  for  his  foot  in  place  of  the  one  stick;  his  head  was 
generously  bandaged,  and,  though  a  curious  faint  down 
was  beginning  to  appear  on  the  exposed  portions  of  his 
scalp,  he  no  longer  wore  a  moustache,  and  his  eyebrows 
were  singed  out  of  existence. 

A  circle  of  his  friends  was  bombarding  him  with  ques- 
tions and  comments  from  all  sides  at  once — "You  had  a* 
near  shave,"  "Were  you  badly  hurt?"  And  then  the  in- 
evitable enquiry — "How  did  it  start?" 

Grayle  began  a  roaming  description  of  the  garage  and 


THE  DOOR  RE-OPENED  293 

loft,  its  tinder-dry  wood-work,  its  equipment  of  inflam- 
mable papers  and  the  like. 

"There  was  a  large  quantity  of  petrol  there,  too,"  he 
explained  confidentially,  "but  I  don't  want  this  talked  about. 
I  had  no  business  to  have  it  there;  it  was  too  near  the 
house ;  the  place — as  we've  amply  shewn — was  in  no  sense 
fire-proof.  I  should  have  the  County  Council  or  some  other 
damned  interfering  body  on  my  back,  if  it  came  out;  I'm 
not  claiming  from  the  insurance  company,  as  it  is,  for 
fear  of  too  many  questions.  They  let  me  down  lightly  at 
the  inquest,  because  there  was  no  one  who  could  give 
evidence.  So  this  is  a  secret  session,"  he  ended  with  a 
laugh,  as  he  began  to  hoist  himself  away  towards  a  chair. 

One  or  two  of  his  companions  followed  and  relieved  him 
of  his  crutches,  as  he  sat  down. 

"But  how  did  it  start?"  he  was  asked  again. 

"The  lamp  was  overturned,"  Grayle  answered  promptly. 
"You  see,  I  got  a  message  that  this  poor  fellow  Beresford 
— he  was  the  deluded  fanatic  who  was  always  getting  locked 
up  for  seditious  pamphlets,  you  know — that  he  wanted  to 
see  me  on  urgent  business,  so  I  went  off,  expecting  to  find 
that  the  fellow  was  in  trouble  again — I  knew  him  slightly, 
you  see ;  we'd  met  at  people's  houses — when  I  got  there,  we 
sat  and  talked  a  bit.  Well,  he  was  lame — like  me.  ..." 

He  paused  and  pulled  at  the  bandage  on  his  head. 

"Where  had  I  got  to  :*'  he  asked  a  moment  later. 

"You  sat  and  talked,"  Bertrand  put  in  from  behind. 

Grayle  turned  round  quickly  and  caught  sight  of  him 
for  the  first  time. 

"You're  the  very  man  I've  been  wanting  to  see!"  he 
exclaimed;  and  then  to  the  others,  "Excuse  me  a  minute." 

Bertrand  pulled  up  a  chair,  as  they  withdrew. 

"You  must  be  grateful  to  me  for  coming  when  I  did," 
he  began.  "The  story  didn't  seem  to  be  going  with  much 
of  a  swing." 

"You  can  leave  my  explanation  to  take  care  of  itself," 
Grayle  answered  shortly. 

"I  felt  I  could  make  it  a  bit  fuller,"  Bertrand  suggested. 


294  SONIA  MARRIED 

Grayle  looked  at  him  enquiringly. 

"I  see.  Well,  you're  at  liberty  to  tell  your  tale,  and  I'll 
tell  mine.  Or  we  can  both  leave  it  where  it  is.  I  admit 
that  some  people  aren't  quite  satisfied  at  present,  but  I 
manage  to  get  rid  of  them, — as  you've  seen.  If  you  want 
me  even  to  drop  a  hint  that  there  was  an  attempt  at ?" 

His  lips  formed  the  word,  but  he  did  not  utter  it ;  and  the 
unexpected  silence  was  surprisingly  sinister. 

"It's  no  business  of  mine  what  lies  you  tell,"  Bertrand 
answered.  "Is  that  all  you  wanted  to  say?  If  so,  I'll  move 
along." 

In  the  week  before  Christmas  O'Rane  returned  from 
Melton  to  find  me  immovably  billeted  upon  him.  After  the 
first  greetings  he  sat  silent  and  reflective.  I  could  see 
that  he  wanted  to  talk  and  did  not  know  how  to  begin.  The 
room  was  his  wife's,  and  there  were  still  marks  by  the 
lock,  where  he  had  burst  it  from  the  wood-work.  God 
knows  what  his  thoughts  must  have  been !  As  I  looked  at 
his  slight  figure,  lazily  reposing  in  a  long  chair,  and  at  his 
self-possessed,  unrevealing  face,  I  found  it  hard  to  picture 
the  scene  when  he  broke  in  the  door.  And  for  the 
thousandth  time  since  that  day  of  tragedy  I  asked  myself 
what  had  been  left  him  in  life  and  longed  for  him  to  ask 
at  least  for  sympathy,  if  he  knew  that  I  could  give  him  no 
more  help. 

When  he  spoke,  it  was  to  make  some  comment  on  the 
war.  The  month-old  rumour  that  the  cabinet  had  broken 
on  the  question  of  peace  negotiations  was  still  flourishing. 
Rather  than  face  another  winter  in  the  trenches  the  Ger- 
man Government  was  alleged  to  have  made  an  offer  to 
evacuate  Belgium  and  northern  France  with  the  alterna- 
tive of  a  threat,  in  the  event  of  the  war's  continuing,  that 
every  neutral  and  allied  ship  sailing  under  whatsoever  flag 
would  be  sunk  at  sight  without  warning.  A  school  that 
was  faint-hearted  in  asserting  itself,  even  if  it  were  not 
faint-hearted  in  the  prosecution  of  the  war,  whispered  that 
we  must  not  miss  our  market  and — in  Bertrand's  phrase — 
refuse  terms  now  that  we  should  have  to  accept  gratefully 


THE  DOOR  RE-OPENED  295 

and  after  the  loss  of  another  half  million  men  in  six  months' 
time.  The  rival  school  of  stalwarts  proclaimed  with  great 
show  of  reason  that  Germany  would  talk  of  peace  only 
at  her  own  convenience — or  necessity — and  that  her  needs 
were  our  opportunity. 

We  went  on  to  talk  of  the  new  government  and  its  pros- 
pect of  life.  In  the  week  before  I  was  incapacitated  politi- 
cal passion  in  London  rose  higher  than  I  have  ever  known 
it.  The  old  government,  tired  and  indolent,  half-hearted 
and  uncaring,  was  losing  the  war  beyond  hopes  of  recovery. 
The  new  government  had  intrigued  its  way  into  place,  sell- 
ing its  soul  to  Lord  Northcliffe,  as  Faust  sold  his  soul  to 
the  devil ....  As  a  very  independent  member  I  was  privi- 
leged to  hear  both  opinions  in  approximately  equal  numbers 
and  certainly  with  equal  violence  of  expression.  I  de- 
scribed to  O'Rane  two  characteristic  meetings  within  five 
minutes  of  each  other.  I  had  been  walking  from  my  office 
to  lunch  at  the  County  Club  one  day,  when  I  stopped  to 
observe  an  unusual  number  of  cars  and  a  considerable 
crowd  of  loafers  outside  the  Reform  Club.  George  Oak- 
leigh  came  up  from  behind  and  asked  what  I  was  watch- 
ing. 

"It's  the  party  meeting,"  he  explained.  "Aren't  you  go- 
ing?" 

"Not  invited,  George,"  I  said.  "I'm  left  out  of  these 
pleasant  little  gatherings.  What  are  they  meeting  about?" 

"To  hear  a  statement  from  Asquith.  There'll  be  a  vote 
of  confidence,  I  suppose.  He's  still  the  leader  of  the  Lib- 
eral Party!"  he  proclaimed  with  a  note  of  challenge. 

"This  partisan  enthusiasm  is  new  to  you,"  I  commented. 

Any  hint  of  raillery  was  lost  on  him. 

"I  daresay  it  is!"  he  cried.  "I  was  a  candid  friend  in 
the  old  '06  parliament,  I've  voted  against  them  a  score  of 
times,  but,  when  I  see  how  they  held  the  country  to- 
gether in  the  first  shock  of  the  war,  when  I  see  what  they 
did  .  .  .  And  now  to  be  turned  out  by  a  low  press  con- 
spiracy and  a  man  who  owes  his  political  salvation  to  As- 
quith, a  man  who  was  pulled  out  of  the  gutter  at  the  time 


296  SONIA  MARRIED 

of  the  Marconi  scandal  .  .  .  when  the  whole  party  nearly; 
split.  My  God!  talk  about  gratitude  in  politics!" 

He  hurried  away  still  most  unwontedly  explosive,  and  I 
followed  more  slowly.  At  the  corner  of  St.  James'  Square 
I  found  Beresford  also  watching  the  crowd.  (It  was  our 
last  meeting  before  he  called  on  me  in  the  afternoon  of 
our  tragic  expedition.) 

"They're  broken !  Their  noses  are  in  the  dirt, — and  thank 
God  for  it!"  he  cried,  pointing  excitedly  across  the  road. 
"They  were  responsible !  They  dragged  us  into  the  war,  it 
was  their  war,  their  diplomacy!  Asquith,  Haldane  and 
Grey.  And  now  they're  in  the  gutter!" 

I  remember  walking  on  to  luncheon  with  both  concep- 
tions to  digest  as  an  appetiser. 

O'Rane  and  I  talked  long  of  political  futures.  The 
Government  had  resigned  without  challenge  or  defeat;  we 
may  have  felt  that  we  ought  to  have  been  consulted,  as  a 
compliment  to  the  unfailing  support  which  we  had  given; 
we  might  even  dislike  the  new  ministry's  mode  of  birth, 
but  we  agreed  in  thinking  that  we  must  give  the  new 
management  a  trial  before  reverting  to  those  who  had  failed 
to  keep  order  in  their  own  home.  Suddenly  O'Rane  inter- 
rupted me  with  a  question  which  shewed  that  his  thoughts 
had  been  for  some  time  at  a  distance  from  domestic  politics. 
,  "Er — Stornaway,"  he  said  with  noticeable  nervousness. 
"You  remember  when  you  came  to  see  me  at  Melton  some 
weeks  ago?  You  were  going  to  set  enquiries  on  foot  to 
find  out  where  Sonia  had  got  to." 

I  told  him  what  had  been  done  and  how  we  had  failed. 
There  had  not  been  many  days  for  me  between  giving 
my  promise  of  help  and  involving  myself  in  the  encounter 
with  Grayle,  but  George  and  his  sleuth-hound  colleague  con- 
tinued to  ransack  every  resource  suggested  by  friendship 
or  professional  pique.  And  at  the  end  of  three  weeks  they 
were  as  near  finding  her  as  at  the  beginning. 

"She  is  either  staying  with  friends  or  hiding  away  in 
rooms  somewhere,"  I  told  O'Rane  as  my  conclusion.  "And 
I  can't  suggest  any  way  of  tracking  her  down.  It's  a 


THE  DOOR  RE-OPENED  297 

waste  of  time  to  advertise ;  she's  hiding,  because  she  doesn't 
want  to  be  found.  If  I  may  advise  you,  wouldn't  it  be 
wiser  to  leave  her  where  she  is?  I  take  it  that  you've 
stopped  proceedings?" 

"I've  stopped  proceedings,"  he  answered,  and  his  chin 
dropped  forward  on  to  his  chest  so  that  I  should  not  see 
the  movements  of  his  thin  face. 

"Then  there's  nothing  to  discuss  with  her.  If  at  any 
time  in  the  future  she  or  you  want  to  regain  your  liberty, 
you  can  start  out  to  get  in  touch  with  her  then.  Any  ques- 
tion of  stopping  her  allowance  is  mere  persecution — and  I 
don't  even  know  that  it's  likely  to  be  successful  perse- 
cution. She  drew  a  cheque  for  twenty  pounds  on  the  day 
she  left  Grayle;  and  she's  not  drawn  a  penny  since.  It'll 
take  some  time  to  exhaust  her  balance,  and,  if  she  finds 
that  her  quarterly  cheque  isn't  being  paid  regularly,  you 
know  even  better  than  I  do  that  she'll  starve  or  beg  or  work 
her  fingers  to  the  bone  before  she'll  give  in." 

O'Rane  was  long  without  answering.  Then  he  dragged 
himself  out  of  the  chair,  shook  hands  and  bade  me  good- 
night. 

"I  must  have  a  look  for  her  myself,"  he  murmured,  as 
though  he  were  thinking  aloud. 

"O'Rane,  she's  clearly  avoiding  you,"  I  pleaded.  "Will 
it  do  any  good?" 

"I  must  meet  her !"  he  cried  tremulously. 

If  I  said  a  very  brutal  thing  then,  I  said  it  because  I 
thought  that  in  the  long  run  it  was  kindest. 

"Let  me  tell  you  one  thing  before  you  go,"  I  begged 
him.  "O'Rane,  you're  not  facing  realities,  you  know; 
you're  playing  with  the  idea  of  reconciliations,  you  think 
that  it's  possible  to  get  your  wife  back  and  to  live  with  her 
again.  My  dear  boy,  you  must  use  your  imagination. 
Think  of  the  mental  process  that  took  her  away,  think 
what  her  experience  has  been,  think  what  her  mental  state 
must  be  now.  She  will  never  come  back  to  you.  And  you 
couldn't  live  with  her,  even  if  she  did." 


298  SONIA  MARRIED 

O'Rane  went  out  of  the  room  without  answering  by 
word  or  gesture. 

2 

On  Christmas  Day  George  came  into  my  room  after 
dinner.  He  betrayed  considerable  excitement  and  was  car- 
rying a  stout  red  book  in  one  hand. 

"I've  tracked  her  down!"  he  exclaimed  almost  before 
the  door  was  closed. 

"Tracked  who  down?"  I  asked  without  any  great  in- 
terest. 

"Sonia.  I  caught  sight  of  her  at  the  Savoy — outside  the 
Savoy,  rather — after  lunch.  The  Maitlands  were  giving  a 
party,  and,  as  we  came  out  into  the  court-yard,  Gerald 
Deganway  put  up  his  eye-glass  and  dug  me  in  the  ribs. 
Then  I  saw  her  in  some  kind  of  livery  or  uniform,  driving 
a  car.  She  didn't  see  me,  and  I  don't  think  she  wanted 
to  be  seen,  because  she  was  sitting  rather  hunched  up  and 
with  her  face  turned  away.  .  .  .  Then  an  old  general 
stumped  out  and  told  her  where  to  go ;  she  said,  'Yes,  sir/ 
turned  the  head  of  the  car  and  drove  away.  I  just  had 
time  to  see  the  number  and  I  spent  a  useful  hour  or  two 
this  afternoon  finding  who  it  belonged  to.  Apparently  the 
old  boy  calls  himself  Brigadier-General  Sir  Andrew  Lamp- 
wood.  Now  we'll  turn  him  up  in  'Who's  Who/  " 

He  dropped  into  a  chair,  filled  a  pipe  and  began  to  turn 
the  pages.  General  Lampwood,  I  gathered  from  his  frag- 
mentary recital,  had  been  educated  at  Eton  and  Sandhurst 
.  .  .  had  served  in  Egypt,  India,  Egypt  again  and  South 
Africa  .  .  .  despatches,  medals,  clasps  ...  a  widower 
with  two  sons  .  .  .  one  house  in  Wilton  Crescent  and  an- 
other in  Norfolk.  .  .  Naval  and  Military,  Turf,  Rane- 
lagh.  .  .  . 

"Well,  if  Raney  wants  her,  he  knows  where  to  find  her," 
he  ended.  "I  suppose  you've  never  met  this  Lampwood? 
No  more  have  I."  He  shut  the  book  with  a  snap  and 
drummed  with  his  knuckles  on  the  binding.  "No  wonder 
we  couldn't  find  her;  she's  probably  living  in  rooms  near 


THE  DOOR  RE-OPENED  299 

by,  driving  for  him  all  day.  .  .  .  I'm  surprised  that  nobody 
should  have  seen  her  till  to-day;  she's  so  well-known,  and 
it's  the  sort  of  thing  the  picture-papers  love  to  get  hold 
of."  He  sniffed  contemptuously.  "  'Recruit  to  the  Ranks 
of  Society  War- Workers !'  ...  I  suppose  she  can  only 
just  have  felt  that  she  must  do  something  and  have  some- 
where to  live " 

"Do  you  find  people  still  talking  about  her?"  I  inter- 
rupted. 

"They  always  have  and  they  always  will."  He  lay  back 
and  smoked  for  a  few  moments  in  a  reflective  silence. 
"Ever  since  she  came  out.  ...  Of  course,  she's  a  really 
beautiful  woman — always  has  been — and  she's  got  a  lot 
of  glib  society  patter  and  she  can  make  herself  almost 
irresistible  to  most  men.  As  she  would  say  herself,  her 
technique  is  perfect.  And,  if  you  never  waste  your  energy 
on  emotions,  I  suppose  you're  left  with  a  tremendous  lot 
for  your  precious  technique.  She  can  be  so  charming  to 
everyone,  when  she  likes,  that  she'll  make  a  success  of  any- 
thing from  a  sticky  dinner  to  a  charity  bazaar.  She  was 
always  a  success,  she  knew  it,  she  got  temperamentally 
drunk  on  it — until  I  think  that  the  only  thing  she  cared 
about  was  being  admired,  wanted,  loved.  .  .  .  And  now 
she's  driving  a  car  for  a  dug-out  general.  ..." 

"But  what  are  people  saying  about  her?"  I  persisted. 

"Oh,  the  old  scandal's  been  toned  down  to  almost  noth- 
ing. She  was  being  seen  about  with  Grayle  too  much,  and 
Raney  put  his  foot  down  and  said  it  was  to  stop."  He 
grinned  maliciously.  "Lady  Pentyre  told  me  at  lunch  to- 
day that  it  was  perfectly  abominable  the  way  people  went 
about  inventing  lies — and  about  a  sweet  girl  like  that!  It 
came  so  well  from  Lady  Pentyre." 

He  smoked  in  silence  until  O'Rane  came  in  for  the  five 
minutes  that  he  always  spared  me  on  his  way  to  bed. 
George  repeated  what  he  had  told  me  and  asked  if  there 
was  anything  that  he  could  do. 

O'Rane  listened  without  any  change  of  expression  and 
then  said  that  he  would  write  to  Lady  Dainton. 


300  SONIA  MARRIED 

"There's  nothing  more  you'd  like  me  to  do?"  George 
asked  again. 

There  was  a  moment's  hesitation  in  which  O'Rane's  un- 
smiling face  became  graver. 

"Well,  I  can't  do  it  for  myself,"  he  said  and  paused 
again.  "I — I  wonder  if  it  would  be  possible  for  you  to 
get  a  word  with  Sonia — find  out  what  time  she  starts  in 
the  morning  and  then  intercept  her " 

"Well?"  George  encouraged  him. 

"I  wouldn't  bother  you,  if  I  could  see,"  O'Rane  re- 
sumed apologetically.  ''Tell  her  that  if  she  wants  any- 
thing  " 

I  felt  that  it  was  time  to  interfere. 

"She  can  go  to  her  parents,"  I  said.  "O'Rane,  we're  all 
of  us  different  men  and  women  every  day  of  our  lives, 
we're  always  changing,  never  the  same.  Some  things 
change  us  more  rapidly  than  others,  marriage,  illness,  great 
prosperity  or  great  disaster,  the  death  of  a  friend — my  dear 
boy,  I'm  only  telling  you  what  you  know  already.  Be- 
cause your  name  doesn't  change,  because  you  look  the 
same  and  your  hair  doesn't  turn  white  from  illness  or  grief, 
you  think  that  you're  the  same.  You're  not.  And  she's 
not.  Since  you  parted,  there  have  been  changes  and  de- 
velopments in  both  your  souls  which  will  prevent  your  ever 
coming  together  again.  You  don't  like  me  to  say  it,  but 
you'll  have  to  recognise  it." 

The  boy's  eyes  seemed  to  shine  with  reflected  pain  at 
every  word. 

"But  isn't  there  room  for  something  new?"  he  asked. 
"A  man  may  love  a  woman  with  all  his  heart  and  soul, 
he  may  marry  her,  she  may  die;  in  time  he  may  marry 
again — without  forgetting  her,  without  transferring  the 
affection  he  once  gave  her — leaving  her  in  the  place  where 
she's  always  been  since  she  died,  but  somehow  creating  a 
new  love.  Don't  you  think  that  when  two  people  .  .  . 
separate,  the  husks  of  their  love  may  die  .  .  .  their  old 
love,  I  mean,  they  may  even  hate  the  memory  of  it,  but  in 
time,  perhaps,  a  new  one  may  be  born  .  .  .  ?" 


THE  DOOR  RE-OPENED  301 

"Between  the  same  people?  My  friend,  the  memory  of 
the  separation,  the  reasons  for  it,  will  rise  up  like  ghosts 
to  keep  them  apart.  You  want  her  to  come  back?" 

For  the  first  time  a  wan  smile  lit  up  his  thin  face. 

"Do  you  wonder  ?" 

"What  can  you  give  her  that  you  didn't  give  her  before  ?" 
I  persisted. 

He  ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair  and  sighed. 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  think  that  a  second  chance  is  always 
thrown  away." 

"And  what  inducement  can  you  offer?"  I  asked  him 
brutally. 

He  spread  out  his  hands  with  a  shrug. 

"What  inducement  did  I  offer  before?  We've  been  in 
love  with  each  other  so  long !  At  one  time  she  was  actually 
engaged  to  another  man.  .  .  .  But  there  was  something 
constant  and  unchanging.  She  didn't  forget  him  or  hate 
him,  but  in  time  she  had  adjusted  herself  and  come  back 
to  the  thing  that  had  always  been  there,  hidden  and  un- 
changed. ...  So  now,  isn't  it  possible  that,  when  the  last 
six  months  fall  into  their  proper  perspective,  when  the 
ghosts  no  longer  rise  up " 

"How  many  people  have  you  known  to  marry  a  second 
time  after  they've  been  divorced?" 

"But  there's  no  reason  why  they  shouldn't." 

"In  fact  they  don't,"  I  said. 

I  believe  that  George  delivered  himself  of  his  message 
within  about  three  days.  I  believe,  further,  that  he 
descended  to  bribe  some  smirking  kitchen-maid  and  stood 
through  a  downpour  of  rain  to  seize  the  opportunity.  Mrs. 
O'Rane  masked  any  surprise  that  she  felt — I  suppose  that 
she  must  have  been  taking  part  in  many  unexpected  meet- 
ings,— thanked  him  for  troubling  to  come  and  transferred 
her  attention  to  the  wind-screen,  as  a  choleric  voice  re- 
marked, "Now,  young  man,  when  you've  quite  finished  talk- 
ing to  my  chauffeur!" 

The  meeting  confirmed  my  own  diagnosis.  The  play  was 
ended,  and,  if  I  concerned  myself  with  wondering  what 


302  SONIA  MARRIED 

O'Rane  and  his  wife  would  do  with  the  remainder  of  their 
lives,  I  felt  that  this  would  be  a  new  play,  no  continuation 
of  the  first.  The  brief  scandal  had  flickered  out  as  ab- 
ruptly as  it  had  flared  up.  Lady  Maitland — my  barometer 
and  sounding-board — announced  to  Bertrand  across  the 
length  of  a  considerable  table  that  she  had  seen  darling 
Sonia,  who  had  really  turned  over  a  new  leaf;  it  was  the 
best  thing  in  the  world;  she  was  taking  the  war  seriously 
at  last. 

"Do  you  know,  that  dear  child  is  never  off  duty  Sun- 
days or  week-days,  night  or  day?"  she  confided.  "You  try 
to  get  her  to  lunch  or  dine — she'll  tell  you  frankly  that  it's 
not  the  least  use  promising,  because,  if  her  General  wants 
her,  out  she  has  to  go  and  she  may  be  driving  for  him  all 
night.  I  don't  see  how  she  can  keep  it  up — not  seeing  any- 
one, you  know,  or  doing  anything,  and  after  the  life  she 
had  been  leading.  Of  course,  she  was  really  very  naughty 
about  the  way  she  did  it — all  in  a  night,  you  know — threw 
everybody  over — I  was  running  an  entertainment  on  be- 
half of  my  society,  and  she  simply  spoilt  one  tableau.  .  .  . 
But  then  that's  so  like  darling  Sonia." 

"She's  less  of  a  fool  than  I  thought,"  was  Bertrand's 
comment  to  me.  "No  awkward  questions,  nobody  to  meet 
her  and  ask  them !  Can't  live  at  home  when  she  has  to  be 
ready  with  the  car  at  a  moment's  notice.  ...  I  hope  Gen- 
eral Sir  Andrew  Lampwood  has  broad  shoulders.  .  .  . 
She's  snug  and  secure  till  the  war's  over,  and  God  knows 
when  that  will  be." 

I  made  no  answer,  for  I  was  thinking  of  O'Rane.  On 
New  Year's  Eve  he  had  dined  at  home  with  George  and 
Bertrand,  and  all  three  came  up  to  my  room  afterwards. 
We  made  a  despondent  party,  for  the  endlessness  of  the 
war  daunted  us  as  the  third  year  added  month  to  month  with 
lengthening  casualty  lists  and  a  growing  sense  that,  when 
we  had  already  failed  so  many  times  and  in  so  many  ways, 
there  was  no  reason  why  we  should  not  go  on  failing.  Each 
one  of  us  was  far  enough  from  reality  to  be  conscious  of 
helplessness  and  insufficiency ;  I  could  not  count  the  number 


THE  DOOR  RE-OPENED  303 

of  times  that  Bertrand  had  growled,  "I've  done  with  the 
House!  I'm  not  going  down  there  any  more.  What  good 
can  we  do?" — the  number  of  times,  too,  that  he  repented 
and  saw  the  House  as  the  one  independent  and  courageous 
check  on  an  imbecile  and  malign  government.  Stripped 
of  all  mental  elasticity  and  enthusiasm,  George  hated  the 
Admiralty  with  a  savage  ferocity  that  was  made  no  less 
by  the  easy  youth  which  he  had  passed,  uncontrolled,  un- 
disciplined and  effortless.  And  underneath  our  nervous 
depression  and  irritability  lay  a  despondent  sense  that  the 
moral  grandeur  of  the  war  had  become  obscured. 

"I  suppose  the  pace  was  too  hot,"  George  observed 
gloomily.  "But  in  those  first  weeks  .  .  .  They  may  not 
have  known  what  they  were  going  out  to  face,  but  they 
went  like  good  'uns ;  and  the  people  who  stayed  behind  were 
ready  for  any  sort  of  sacrifice  of  money,  comfort,  leisure. 
All  the  spiritual  fervour  seems  to  go  now  in  trying  to  make 
other  people  do  things,  keeping  other  people  up  to  the 
mark.  .  .  .  God!  I'm  sick  of  the  press  agitations,  I'm  sick 
of  all  this  political  intrigue,  I  suppose  I'm  sick  of  the 
war." 

O'Rane  nodded,  but  made  no  answer. 

"I  don't  ask  anyone  to  listen  to  me,"  George  went  on 
with  unwonted  bitterness,  "because  I've  been  wrong  all 
through.  So  have  you,  Bertrand.  We  were  wrong  before 
the  war,  when  we  said  there  couldn't  be  a  war;  and  we 
were  wrong  when  we  started  yapping  about  a  'war  to  end 
war/  We  can't  even  make  a  clean  job  of  this,  we  can't 
make  the  Hun  put  up  his  hands  and  say  he'll  go  back  to 
the  status  quo,  and  as  for  dismembering  Germany  and  de- 
posing the  Kaiser — we  can't  do  it!  But  when  I  remember 
my  own  torn-fool  speeches  at  the  beginning " 

"But  we  couldn't  keep  out  of  it,  George,"  O'Rane  inter- 
jected. 

"And  precious  little  good  we've  done  by  going  in.  I  sup- 
pose we  have  stopped  Germany  from  dominating  Europe, 
but,  as  for  our  own  honour,  we  offered  that  up  on  the  altar 
of  necessity  when  we  found  that  we  were  fighting  a  nation 


304  SONIA  MARRIED 

that  meant  to  win  if  it  darned  well  could.  Our  later  policy's 
become  frankly  imperialistic;  there's  no  ethical  connection 
between  Belgian  neutrality  and  the  partition  of  Turkey  and 
Austria.  I'm  afraid  I've  taken  a  deuced  long  time  to  see 
it.  .  .  ."  He  turned  to  me  with  a  scornful  smile.  "Do  you 
remember  when  you  first  came  back  to  England?  When 
we  met  outside  the  Admiralty?" 

"I've  often  thought  of  that  conversation,"  I  said. 

"Everything  seemed  to  follow  so  naturally  in  those  days," 
he  sighed.  "Disarmament,  nationality,  a  tribunal  to  arbi- 
trate between  states.  Raney,  you  were  one  of  the  most 
persistent  optimists  I've  had  the  ill-luck  to  meet ;  you're  not 
going  to  pretend  that  the  entire  thing's  not  the  most  futile, 
gigantic  waste  .  .  .  whole  peoples  in  arms  hacking  them- 
selves to  death  and  not  a  damned  thing  gained !  You  don't 
think  we're  going  to  win  this  war?" 

For  the  first  time  in  six  months  I  saw  O'Rane  roused 
to  impersonal  interest. 

"I  don't  know  if  anybody's  going  to  win,"  he  answered. 
"And,  what's  more,  I  don't  greatly  care." 

"If  you  were  back  in  August,  '14?"  George  asked,  looking 
him  in  the  eyes  and  then  quickly  turning  away. 

"I'd  go  through  it  again,"  was  the  quiet  reply. 

George  got  up  and  began  to  pace  restlessly  up  and  down 
the  room. 

"The  big  thing  about  this  war  is  quite  independent  of 
results,"  O'Rane  explained.  "It's  the  effect  on  the  indi- 
vidual, the  effort,  the  risk,  the  readiness  to  make  sacrifice. 
I  always  hold  that  there's  no  room  in  life  for  compromise. 
You  know  that,  don't  you,  George  ?"  He  held  out  his  hand 
and  pulled  George  on  to  the  arm  of  his  chair.  "From  the 
days  when  we  were  at  Melton  together.  You  and  dear  old 
Jim  Loring  and  Tom  Dainton — dear  God!  how  this  war 
has  killed  them  off! — you  used  to  thrash  me,  you  brutes, 
to  make  me  see  that  I  must  compromise,  but  you  never 
won.  And  always  before  the  war  I  thought  that  compro- 
mise— what  I  call  moral  cowardice  and  spiritual  slovenli- 
ness— was  the  only  thing  that  people  minded  about.  They 


THE  DOOR  RE-OPENED  305 

didn't  care.  It  wasn't  their  business!  If  the  world  was 
cruel  and  licentious  or  base-minded,  they  always  asked  me 
to  remember  that  human  nature  was  human  nature."  He 
sprang  up  with  a  sudden  wriggle  as  though  he  were  jerking 
an  incubus  from  his  shoulders.  "As  a  nation  we  were  con- 
tented with  the  second-rate — compromise,  toleration,  ease; 
we  were  second-rate  in  life,  art,  politics,  second-rate  in  hu- 
manity, in  soul.  .  .  .  And  then  there  came  the  war — and  it 
was  the  big  moment  when  we  had  to  decide  whether  to 
fight  our  way  through  the  flames  or  to  stand  in  distant 
security  and  explain  to  the  reporters  that  there  was  a  child, 
sure  enough,  in  the  top  storey,  but  that  it  would  be  suicide 
to  attempt  a  rescue  and  what  was  the  fire  brigade  for,  any- 
way ?  .  .  .  We  had  to  decide,  we  had  to  make  up  our  minds 
that  there  was  something  big  enough  to  suffer  and  sacri- 
fice ourselves  for.  .  . .  All  of  us  who  went  out  there  thought, 
rightly  or  wrongly,  that  we'd  found  something  that  ad- 
mitted of  no  compromise.  .  .  .  Even  if  you  went  out  of 
bravado,  like  poor  Val  Arden,  so  as  not  to  be  thought  a 
funk  .  .  .  What  it  was — I  don't  quite  know  .  .  ."  he  went 
on  slowly.  "I  doubt  if  any  of  us  know,  and  we  certainly 
didn't  at  the  time.  Perhaps  it  was  for  the  security  of  the 
people  at  home.  ...  I  know  I  was  seeing  red,  I'd  have 
slit  the  throats  of  German  women  and  children  at  that  time 
— in  revenge  for  what  they  did  in  Belgium.  .  .  .  But  before 
that  started,  before  war  was  declared  .  .  .  You  remember 
that  last  week-end  of  the  Saturnia  regna,  George?  When 
we  walked  up  and  down,  up  and  down  at  Loring  Castle, 
wondering  whether  there  was  anything  worth  saving.  .  .  . 
Well,  whenever  I  catch  myself  feeling  as  you  do  now,  I 
recall  that  about  four  million  men  voluntarily  decided  that 
there  was  something  in  life  better  than  their  own  lives, 
something  that  had  to  be  preserved,  something  that  ruled 
out  all  compromise.  That's  the  moral  value  of  war.  After 
all,  what  is  it  you  do  when  you  run  .into  the  flames  and 
rescue  the  kiddie  from  the  top  storey?  You  save  its  life,  I 
admit,  and  that's  something,  if  you  value  human  life,  but 
the  child  may  die  a  week  later  of  whooping-cough,  it  may 


306  SONIA  MARRIED 

grow  into  a  drunkard,  an  imbecile,  a  criminal.  What  mat- 
ters it  that  you've  taken  yourself,  your  own  soul,  and  given 
it  a  value?  .  .  .  When  this  is  all  over,  if  we  lose,  if  we're 
bankrupt  and  broken,  if  Germany  enchains  us  like  so  many 
tribes  of  African  blacks,  it  still  doesn't  matter  to  the  men 
who  refused  to  compromise,  they've  made  themselves.  .  .  . 
Yes,  quite  deliberately,  I'd — go  through  it — all — again.  .  .  . 
And,  when  the  war's  over,  we  can't  afford  to  tolerate  any- 
thing but  the  best,  we  haven't  been  fighting  for  the  second- 
rate.  And  we've  got  to  prepare  our  own  minds  for  that 
now,  so  that  the  material  changes  follow  automatically.  You 
must  start  with  the  individual,  your  own  relationship  to 
the  world  in  all  its  aspects.  Hanging  for  sheep-stealing 
ceased  automatically  when  the  public  mind  had  prepared 
itself,  stirred  itself  up  to  say  'This  has  got  to  stop!'  and 
the  compromisers,  the  obscurantists,  the  vested  interests 
daren't  raise  their  heads.  You  think,  perhaps,  that  I'm  not 
the  best  person  to  decry  the  usefulness  of  compromise " 

He  stopped  abruptly,  and  all  the  light  and  colour  died  out 
of  his  big  eyes. 

Bertrand,  whom  I  thought  to  be  dozing,  raised  his  head 
for  a  moment  and  lowered  it  again. 

"Didn't  Saint  Paul  say  something  about  being  all  things 
to  all  men?"  he  asked  gently.  "Saint  Paul  was  a  great  dip- 
lomatist, a  great  man  of  the  world.  You'd  say  he  was  a 
great  compromiser,  David,  but  at  least  he  knew  how  to 
suit  himself  to  his  audiences,  to  make  allowances  for  poor, 
despised  human  nature.  And  perhaps  you'll  even  admit 
that  he  was  not  altogether  unsuccessful  and  that  Christianity 
would  never  have  spread  a  hundred  miles  from  Jerusalem 
but  for  him.  I  sometimes  think  he  has  been  unduly  neg- 
lected," he  continued  with  a  yawn.  "Christianity  would 
have  been  a  poor  thing  without  him." 

"It  would  have  been  a  poorer  thing  without  Christ," 
O'Rane  answered.  "And  there  would  have  been  no  Chris- 
tianity at  all,  if  Christ  had  said  that  the  Scribes  and  Phari- 
sees were  doing  their  best  according  to  their  lights  ...  or 
that  we  must  make  allowances  for  Dives  because  he  had  a 


THE  DOOR  RE-OPENED  307 

great  many  calls  on  his  charity  and  really  couldn't  in- 
vestigate each  one  personally.  Of  course,  there'd  have 
been  no  Crucifixion.  ..." 


The  Christmas  holidays  passed  rapidly,  and  I  remember 
that  O'Rane  told  me  one  Sunday  night  that  he  would  be 
going  back  to  Melton  in  another  ten  days'  time.  None  of 
us  cared  to  ask  him  how  much  longer  he  proposed  to  con- 
tinue this  make-shift  life,  teaching  seventeen-year-olds  for 
nine  months  in  the  year  and  learning  procedure  in  the  House 
of  Commons  during  the  remainder ;  it  was  his  means  of  try- 
ing to  forget  that  his  wife  was  in  the  same  city,  living 
within  a  mile  or  two  of  him,  driving  perhaps  within  a 
hundred  yards  of  their  house  or  passing  him  in  the  street, 
elusive  and  unattainable. 

After  George's  glimpse  and  single  meeting,  we  heard 
little  of  her.  George  told  me  that  he  had  met  "Sonia's 
General,"  as  that  no  doubt  gallant  soldier  came  to  be  called 
with  unflattering  disregard  of  earlier  and  more  varied 
achievements,  that  he  was  an  agreeable  fellow,  that  someone 
was  putting  him  up  for  the  Eclectic  Club.  They  fell  into 
conversation  and  discussed  the  prowess  of  the  new  driver; 
the  General  had  been  taken  completely  by  surprise. 

"If  she'd  said  'Sonia  Dainton,'  anyone  would  have 
known,"  he  explained.  "I'd  forgotten  she  was  married.  She 
suits  me  uncommon  well, — if  she  can  stand  the  strain.  .  .  ." 

A  day  or  two  later  Bertrand  made  the  General's  ac- 
quaintance and  came  home  with  the  not  very  surprising 
news  that  Mrs.  O'Rane  had  terminated  her  engagement. 

"I  never  supposed  that  pjiase  would  last  long,"  he 
grunted.  "Up  early,  back  late,  out  in  all  weathers  and 
thankful  if  you  can  snatch  five  minutes  to  munch  a  sand- 
wich out  of  a  paper  bag.  There'd  be  very  little  of  this 
boasted  'war-work'  done,  Stornaway,  if  people  weren't  al- 
lowed to  go  about  in  uniform,  and  none  at  all,  if  the  first 
condition  of  your  employment  was  that  no  one  was  allowed 


308  SONIA  MARRIED 

to  know  that  you  were  doing  war-work  of  any  kind.  / 
can  see  the  offices  and  hospitals  yielding  up  their  social 
ornaments!  Well,  Sonia  O'Rane's  at  least  honest  about 
it.  A  week  or  two  with  only  a  livery  and  no  one  to  admire 
her 1" 

"She's  got  no  excuse  now  for  living  anywhere  but  at 
home/'  I  commented. 

Bertrand  grunted  scornfully. 

"Give  her  credit  for  a  little  more  contrivance  than  that! 
She  leaves  her  General  at  the  end  of  the  month,  by  which 
time  her  husband  will  be  safely  back  in  the  country.  But 
she  hopes  to  take  it  up  again,  when  she's  a  bit  stronger. 
I  had  this  from  the  General;  he  shewed  me  her  letter. 
Damned  ill-written  scrawl,"  he  added  with  the  intolerance 
which  ran  away  with  him  whenever  his  prejudices  were 
aroused.  "She'll  recuperate  by  lunching  and  dining  out  and 
dancing  and  staying  up  till  all  hours ;  and  the  moment  David 
comes  back  to  London  she'll  be  well  enough  to  go  back  to 
her  precious  work.  You  see  if  I'm  not  right." 

This  time,  however,  Bertrand's  ingenuity  and  malice  over- 
reached themselves,  for  we  heard  from  Lady  Maitland  that 
Mrs.  O'Rane  was  genuinely  ill. 

"I  used  to  see  her  every  morning,"  she  told  George,  "as 
I  went  to  Harrod's,  and  nine  times  out  of  ten  we  had  just 
a  word  together.  Then  I  missed  her,  then  I  saw  the  car 
being  driven  by  someone  else.  I  hope  it's  nothing  serious." 

The  conversation  took  place  at  a  luncheon  party  where 
O'Rane  was  present.  George  took  it  upon  himself  to  re- 
assure her,  but  from  the  fact  that  Mrs.  O'Rane  had  dis- 
appeared even  more  completely  than  after  leaving  Grayle 
there  was  a  risk  in  fabricating  good  or  bad  news  about  her. 
General  Lampwood  supplied  her  address,  and  one  evening 
when  there  was  nothing  better  to  do  George  went  round  to 
her  lodgings.  They  consisted  of  a  bed-sitting  room  in  a 
street  off  Wilton  Crescent  conveniently  near  to  the  garage. 
She  was  in  bed,  and  the  landlady  doubted  whether  visitors 
would  be  very  welcome,  as  she  was  suffering  a  good  deal  of 
pain. 


THE  DOOR  RE-OPENED  309 

"That  decided  me/'  George  told  me.  "She  hadn't  actually 
said  she  wouldn't  see  anyone,  because  I'm  pretty  sure  she 
didn't  think  it  would  be  necessary.  I  gave  her  the  surprise 
of  her  life  when  I  marched  in;  she  couldn't  imagine  how 
I'd  heard  she  was  ill,  how  I'd  found  out  her  address.  .  .  . 
She's  now  suffering  from  the  most  awful  reaction  after  the 
racket  of  the  last  year.  Nothing  that  I  said  or  did  was 
right;  she  was  as  lonely  as  a  woman  could  be  and  at  the 
same  time  resented  my  coming,  resented  my  saying  she 
looked  rotten  and  ought  to  see  a  doctor.  .  .  ."  He  frowned 
and  shrugged  his  shoulders  impatiently.  "She  needn't 
bother.  She  won't  catch  me  going  there  a  second  time." 

Yet  rather  less  than  ten  hours  passed  before  he  was 
caught  going  there  a  second  time.  Indeed  he  can  hardly 
have  left  the  house  before  Mrs.  O'Rane  was  writing  in 
contrition — "Darling  George,  do  forgive  me  if  I  was  snappy 
and  ungracious,  but  I  did  feel  so  rotten !  It  was  my  own 
fault  that  nobody  came  to  see  me,  because  nobody  knew 
where  I  was,  but  I  felt  so  horribly  neglected,  I  was  so  furi- 
ous with  everybody  for  not  coming  to  see  me,  that  when 
you  came  into  the  room  I  laid  myself  out  to  be  hateful.  .  .  . 
My  dear,  I  did  really  feel  iller  than  I  can  tell  you,  so  forgive 
me !  Sonia." 

"I  suppose  if  I  collect  a  few  flowers  ..."  George  began 
apologetically  next  morning.  "I  shan't  be  able  to  stay 
more  than  a  moment,  or  I  shall  be  so  frightfully  late  at  the 
office  ...  I  might  get  my  cousin  Violet  to  look  her  up,  of 
course." 

I  was  never  told  how  he  found  Mrs.  O'Rane  on  the  oc- 
casion of  his  second  visit,  but  in  the  evening  young  Lady 
Loring  paid  us  an  unexpected  visit.  I  did  not  see  her,  but, 
when  she  had  gone,  George  came  into  my  room  with  an 
expression  of  worried  perplexity. 

"Violet's  been  sitting  most  of  the  day  with  Sonia,"  he 
explained.  "I  wonder  if  you  guessed.  ...  I  confess  I  never 
thought  of  it  for  one  moment.  Sonia's  going  to  have  a 
child  very  shortly." 


310  SONIA  MARRIED 

I,  too,  was  taken  by  surprise  and  needed  a  moment  to 
arrange  my  thoughts. 

"You're  sure  of  that?"  I  asked. 

"She  told  Violet.  The  question  is — what  are  we  going 
to  do  with  her?  She's  got  to  be  properly  looked  after  and 
she's  got  to  be  moved  out  of  her  present  pokey  little 
room.  ...  I  suppose  it  means  a  nursing  home.  Violet  sug- 
gested taking  her  to  Loring  House,  but  that  was  more  gen- 
erous than  practical,  I'm  afraid  there's  no  doubt  Sonia  did 
behave  very  badly  to  Jim  Loring  when  she  was  engaged 
to  him  .  .  .  and  Violet  knows  it  and  doesn't  forgive  her  .  .  . 
and  Sonia  doesn't  forgive  her  for  knowing  it.  You  know 
what  women  are.  Violet's  got  all  the  sweetness  in  the 
world,  she  thinks  she  doesn't  bear  a  grudge,  she  can  call 
on  Sonia  in  bed,  make  a  fuss  of  her  .  .  .  but  it's  different 
to  take  her  into  her  own  house,  particularly  with  the  asso- 
ciations that  house  must  have  for  Sonia.  But  I  needn't 
labour  the  point;  the  suggestion  was  turned  down  almost 
as  soon  as  it  was  made.  Well,  she  can't  go  to  her  mother, 
because  Crowley  Court's  overflowing  with  wounded  sol- 
diers ;  and  I  don't  know  that  she's  overwhelmingly  anxious 
to  meet  her  mother.  She  can't  come  here,  of  course." 

He  stood  reflectively  rubbing  his  chin. 

"Whose  child  is  it  going  to  be?"  I  asked. 

"Grayle's  the  father.  I  suppose  that,  as  Raney's  taken 

up  his  present  attitude "  He  left  the  sentence  unfinished 

and  began  to  fill  a  pipe.  "Ye  gods,  what  a  sweet  mess 
people  can  get  themselves  into!" 

"When's  the  event  expected?" 

"Pretty  soon,  I  fancy.  Violet  didn't  tell  me  the  exact 
date,  but  she  did  give  me  to  understand  very  plainly  that 
Sonia  mustn't  be  left  by  herself  any  longer.  She  was  ex- 
traordinarily overwrought  and  hysterical,  when  I  saw  her, 
but  for  some  reason  or  other  I  never  imagined  ...  I  say, 
Stornaway,  if  it  had  been  Raney's  child,  if  this  had  hap- 
pened a  year  ago?" 

"Nothing  would  have  saved  them,"  I  answered,  "though 
it  might  have  kept  them  artificially  together,  making  a  hell 


THE  DOOR  RE-OPENED  311 

of  each  other's  lives,  when  they'd  be  far  happier  apart. 
O'Rane  was  more  responsible  than  any  man  for  the  break- 
up of  their  life ;  Grayle  was  only  the  instrument.  The  trag- 
edy began  when  they  married/' 

George  smiled  grimly. 

"I  suppose  even  Raney  will  see  it,  when  his  wife  gives 
birth  to  another  man's  child.  .  .  .  And  then  what  ?  Will  he 
divorce  her  then?  Have  we  got  to  go  through  all  this 
racket  again?  In  the  meantime  the  nursing-home  prob- 
lem  " 

He  stopped  guiltily,  as  the  door  opened  and  O'Rane  came 
in  to  say  good-night  to  me. 

"Who's  been  to  call  here?"  he  asked  George.  "I  met  a 
car  driving  away." 

"It  was  Violet  Loring." 

"Oh,  I  wish  I'd  known  that!  When  next  you  see  her, 
you  can  tell  her  she's  a  rude  pig  not  to  have  pulled  up. 
She  must  have  seen  me." 

"She  was  in  rather  a  hurry,"  George  explained.  "As  a 
matter  of  fact,  it  was  me  she  came  to  see." 

I  suppose  his  voice  betrayed  uneasiness  or  at  least  em- 
barrassment, for  O'Rane  turned  to  him  with  quick  sym- 
pathy. 

"Nothing  wrong,  I  hope?"  he  asked.  "The  boy's  all 
right?" 

"Oh,  it  wasn't  that."  George  looked  at  me  almost  de- 
spairingly, but  I  could  only  shrug  my  shoulders  and  leave 
him  to  make  up  his  own  mind.  "She  came  in  to  say  that 
Sonia's  a  bit  seedy,"  he  went  on.  "I — as  a  matter  of  fact, 
I  saw  her  for  a  moment  yesterday  and,  as  she  was  rather 
off  colour,  I  thought  it  would  be  a  friendly  act  for  Vi  to 
look  her  up.  I  don't  know  if  you  heard  Lady  Maitlarid  tell- 
ing me  at  lunch  the  other  day  that  she  was  a  bit  done  up." 

O'Rane's  face  became  rigid,  and  his  voice  was  as  set  as 
his  features. 

"I  didn't  hear  anything  about  it.  I — You  ought  to  have 
told  me,  George.  What's  the  matter  with  her?" 


312  SONIA  MARRIED 

George  looked  at  me  again,  without  winning  any  more 
help  than  before. 

"I  only  saw  her  for  a  moment,"  he  answered  evasively. 
"She  seemed  rather  overdone." 

"But  who's  looking  after  her?" 

"Nobody  much  at  present.  That  was  what  Violet  came 
about :  she'd  been  to  see  her  and  thought  it  would  be  more 
comfortable  if  she  were  moved  into  a  nursing  home." 

Nature  must  compensate  the  blind  by  developing  their 
other  qualities.  Though  he  could  not  see  George's  studiedly 
non-committal  face,  O'Rane  divined  something  hidden  from 
him  in  the  easily  reassuring  voice. 

"Old  man,  I  don't  think  that's  the  whole  story,  is  it?" 
he  asked  with  persuasive  gentleness.  "The  nursing-home 
rather  gives  you  away.  Has  Sonia  got  to  have  an  opera- 
tion?" 

"There's  no  suggestion  of  it!  Violet  says  it's  nothing 
out  of  the  ordinary." 

"Then  why  a  nursing-home?" 

"Because  she  wants  rather  more  attention  than  she's 
likely  to  get  in  her  present  quarters.  But  there's  not  the 
slightest  need  for  you  to  worry  yourself." 

O'Rane  began  to  pace  up  and  down  the  room,  chewing 
his  lips. 

"She  must  come  here,  of  course,"  he  said  at  length. 

This  time  I  looked  up  at  George. 

"You  won't  find  that  practicable,  O'Rane,"  I  said. 

"Why  not?" 

"She  won't  come." 

"Because  of  me,  you  mean  ?  I'll  clear  out,  if  she  prefers 
it;  I  should  be  clearing  out  in  any  event  at  the  end  of 
the  week.  But  it's  her  home." 

"You  can't  bring  her  home  by  force." 

O'Rane's  eyes  lit  up  with  sudden,  burning  passion. 

"If  I  had  my  sight,  I'd  bring  her  myself !  As  I  haven't, 
George  is  going  to  bring  her  for  me.  Yes,  you  are,  George. 
You're  going  to  take  a  car  and  have  her  carried  into  it  and 
brought  here.  If  she  objects,  you're  going  to  make  her. 


THE  DOOR  RE-OPENED  313 

I'll  leave  the  house  when  she  tells  me  to.  You  dcn't  under- 
stand me,  you  wouldn't  understand  me,  if  you  lived  to  be 
a  thousand;  but  I  took  an  oath  and  I'm  going  to  keep  it. 
I  swore  in  the  sight  of  God  that  I  would  hold  her  in  sick- 
ness and  in  health  to  love  and  to  cherish  till  death  parted 
us.  I  said  it  with  her  hand  in  mine  ...  in  Melton  chapel 
.  .  .  and  I  could  feel  her  fingers  trembling.  It  was  a  scorch- 
ing July  day,  and  I  could  feel  the  sun  coming  hot  on  my 
face.  ...  I'd  never  been  at  a  wedding  before,  for  some 
reason;  we'd  rehearsed  it,  and  Sonia'd  told  me  how  I  had 
to  stand  and  what  I  had  to  say.  .  .  .  And  I  kept  repeating 
the  words  as  we  came  out  into  the  Cloisters — it  was  cold 
as  the  grave,  and  I  felt  her  shivering  as  she  leant  on  my 
arm.  And  then  there  was  a  word  of  command  and  a  rattle 
as  the  Corps  presented  arms.  .  .  .  And  we  came  out  into 
Great  Court,  and  I  could  feel  the  sun  again.  And  we 
were  marched  off  to  Little  End,  and  I  heard  a  lot  of  yelp- 
ing, and  something  with  a  cold  nose  pressed  against  my 
hand,  and  Sonia  gave  a  little  choke  and  said  that  Pebble- 
ridge  had  turned  out  the  hounds  in  our  honour.  .  .  .  And 
before  we  went  to  Burgess'  house — the  words  were  still 
running  in  my  head — I  whispered  'I  will  love  you,  comfort 
you,  honour  and  keep  you  in  sickness  and  in  health,  for- 
saking all  other.'  I  swore  it  then  and  I  should  be  damned 
if  I  went  back  on  it.  This  is  her  first  sickness  since  we 
were  married,  and  I'm  not  going  to  leave  her  to  go  through 
it  alone  until  she  tells  me  to." 

His  voice  rang  with  excitement  until  the  room  echoed 
and  Bertrand  came  in  with  eyebrows  raised. 

"You  don't  in  the  least  understand,  Raney,"  George  be- 
gan in  difficulty  and  distress.  "You  were  quite  right;  I 
hadn't  told  you  the  whole  story " 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more — yet,"  O'Rane  inter- 
rupted. "I  shouldn't  be  asking  you  to  do  this,  if  I  could 
do  it  myself." 

"Was  that  necessary?"  George  asked  with  a  touch  of 
stiffness  and  impatience.  "I'll  go  whenever  you  want  me 
to." 


3H  SONIA  MARRIED 

"You  must  go  now.  Ring  up  Violet  and  tell  her  to  meet 
you  there  in  half  an  hour  with  her  car;  you'll  want  a 
woman  to  help  you.  The  rest  of  us  will  have  our  work 
cut  out  to  get  things  ready  here.  Stornaway,  I'm  sorry 
to  disturb  you,  but  I  shall  have  to  find  you  a  shake-down 
in  some  other  part  of  the  house ;  this  is  Sonia's  room.  Don't 
waste  a  moment,  George " 

"I  suppose  you  know  it's  after  eleven,"  George  inter- 
rupted. 

"Move  her  to-night,  if  she's  fit  to  move.  Let  Violet  de- 
cide that." 

George  looked  from  Bertrand  to  me  and  turned  help- 
lessly to  the  door.  O'Rane  had  already  rung  my  bell  and 
was  standing  in  the  passage  tattooing  the  floor  with  impa- 
tient foot  and  waiting  for  his  housekeeper.  I  spread  a 
bath-towel  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  and  began  to  pile  on 
it  my  exiguous  personal  effects,  while  Bertrand  seated  him- 
self heavily  in  an  arm-chair  and  begged  for  enlightenment. 
A  moment  later  the  front-door  slammed,  as  George  set  out. 

For  an  hour  we  worked  hard  to  make  the  house  ready 
for  Mrs.  O'Rane.  Bertrand's  one  comment,  when  I  ex- 
plained the  new  commotion,  was,  "The  boy's  mad!  She 
won't  come,"  and  from  time  to  time,  when  he  was  being 
urged  and  driven  to  a  fresh  task,  he  would  remonstrate 
gently  and  warn  O'Rane  not  to  be  disappointed.  There 
was  never  any  answer.  By  midnight  our  labours  were  com- 
plete: the  bedrooms  had  been  reshuffled  and  beds  made, 
food  and  drink  prepared.  We  met  in  the  library  with 
vague  uncertainty  what  to  do  next. 

"You  must  tell  me  if  it  looks  all  right,"  O'Rane  said  to 
Bertrand.  "I  want  it  to  look  exactly  as  it  was  before.  She 
always  loved  this  room,  and  I  believe  it  is  a  beautiful 
room." 

Bertrand  glanced  perfunctorily  round  and  laid  his  hand 
clumsily  on  the  boy's  shoulder. 

"I  told  you  before,  David;  you're  going  to  be  terribly 
disappointed,  if  you  think  she's  coming." 

"I  would  have  undertaken  to  bring  her !"  he  cried.   "We 


THE  DOOR  RE-OPENED  315 

can  trust  George.     And  I  don't  suppose  he'll  even  say 
where  he's  taking  her." 

"If  she  doesn't  know  where  she's  coming,"  I  interrupted, 
"you'd  better  keep  out  of  the  way  till  she  says  she'd  like 
to  see  you." 

"I  must  welcome  her,"  O'Rane  answered. 

Bertrand  and  I  exchanged  glances  and  excused  ourselves. 
As  we  turned  at  the  door,  O'Rane  was  standing  with  his 
watch  to  his  ear.  About  three-quarters  of  an  hour  later  I 
heard  a  car  slowing  down  in  the  street  outside. 

George  has  told  me  since  that  his  cousin  and  he  found 
their  patient  far  less  difficult  than  they  had  feared.  She 
was  plunged  in  melancholy  bordering  on  hysteria.  Loneli- 
ness, pain  and  neglect  had  reduced  her  pride  until  she  sat 
up  in  bed  with  her  face  contorted  and  tears  trickling  down 
her  cheeks,  reproaching  them  for  never  coming  to  see  her 
and  bitterly  proclaiming  that  she  now  knew  how  much  trust 
to  put  in  people  when  they  said  that  they  were  her  friends. 
George  took  her  hand  and  explained  that  he  had  come 
to  take  her  away  where  she  would  be  tended  and  made 
happy.  At  once  there  was  an  indignant  outburst ;  she  would 
not  move,  she  was  quite  well ;  if  they  would  go  away  instead 
of  bullying  her,  worrying  her,  threatening  her,  she  would 
be  all  right  in  a  moment.  He  let  the  storm  spend  itself 
and  recaptured  the  hand  that  she  had  snatched  away. 

"Violet's  told  me  what's  the  matter  with  you,"  he  whis- 
pered. "Unless  you're  very  quiet  and  good,  you'll  injure 
yourself.  And  you  are  going  to  be  quiet  and  good,  aren't 
you?"  He  was  talking  to  her  as  though  she  were  a  child 
and  she  responded  by  throwing  her  arms  round  his  neck  and 
weeping  convulsively.  "You're  going  to  be  very  good, 
aren't  you,  Sonia?  And  we're  all  going  to  take  the  greatest 
care  of  you.  Violet's  got  her  car  here,  and  we're  going  to 
wrap  you  in  a  cloak  and  explain  to  your  landlady  that  we're 
not  really  stealing  the  blankets,  however  much  appearances 
may  be  against  us,  and  we're  going  to  take  you  away,  and 
you're  going  to  be  in  the  midst  of  friends,  and  every- 
body's going  to  be  kind  and  sweet  to  you,  and  you're  going 


316  SONIA  MARRIED 

to  forget  how  lonely  and  miserable  you've  been  the  last 
few  days." 

He  lifted  her  into  a  sitting  position,  while  Lady  Loring 
hunted  for  slippers  and  wrapped  a  cloak  about  her. 

"I  don't  deserve  it!"  Mrs.  O'Rane  cried  with  sudden  re- 
vulsion. "Why  do  you  come  here  bothering  me?  It's  my 
fault,  I  knew  perfectly  well  what  I  was  doing;  I  should 
never  have  done  it,  if  he'd  treated  me  properly,  if  he'd  loved 
me.  It  was  David's  fault,  you  know  it  was ;  and  you  come 
here  bothering  me  when  I'm  ill.  .  .  ." 

George  helped  her  out  of  bed  and  supported  her  across 
the  room.  From  time  to  time  she  muttered,  "Why  don't 
you  leave  me  alone?  It  was  his  fault,  but  he  could  never 
do  any  wrong  in  your  eyes!"  like  a  sobbing  child  in  the 
last  stages  of  a  tornado  of  temper.  He  carried  her  into 
the  car,  while  Lady  Loring  poured  out  a  hurried  explana- 
tion to  the  landlady.  A  deep  drowsiness  descended  upon 
her  as  she  felt  herself  being  packed  into  a  bed  of  cushions, 
while  a  bearskin  rug  was  wrapped  round  her,  but,  as  the 
engine  started,  she  opened  her  eyes  and  enquired  sleepily 
where  she  was  being  taken. 

"You're  to  go  to  sleep  and  not  ask  questions,"  said  George. 
"Is  that  a  promise  ?  Say  it  quite  slowly — 'I — Sonia  O'Rane 
— promise — that — I — will — go — to — sleep — at — once — quite 
— quietly — and — will — not — ask — a  n  y — questions.'  "  She 
laughed  weakly  and  began  to  repeat  the  words,  only  stum- 
bling at  her  own  surname.  "Once  again !"  George  ordered. 
"I — Sonia  O'Rane — promise.  .  .  ."  She  struggled  half- 
way through  the  sentence  and  then  dropped  asleep  with 
her  head  pressed  against  his  shoulder. 

She  was  still  sleeping  when  the  car  drew  up  at  "The 
Sanctuary."  The  door  stood  open,  George  lifted  her  out 
and  carried  her  across  the  pavement  and  into  the  house. 
The  lights  in  the  library  were  burning,  and,  as  he  carried 
her  in  with  her  head  over  his  shoulder,  she  looked  dully 
at  the  familiar  book-cases  and  panelling,  the  high,  shadowy 
rafters,  the  chairs  and  sofas  and  the  preparations  for  a 
meal  on  the  refectory  table.  He  had  borne  her  half-way 


THE  DOOR  RE-OPENED  317 

across  the  room,  when  she  recognised  her  surroundings  and 
struggled  violently  to  free  herself.  George  had  perforce 
to  lay  her  on  a  sofa  before  she  threw  herself  out  of  his 
arms.  As  he  did  so,  O'Rane  came  up  from  behind. 

"I  asked  George  to  bring  you  here,"  he  explained.  "I 
thought  you'd  be  more  comfortable  at  home." 

She  dragged  herself  to  her  feet  and  hurried  uncertainly 
to  the  door. 

"My  dear,  you  can't  go  out  in  that  state!"  said  Lady 
Loring,  as  she  laid  restraining  hands  on  her  shoulders. 

"Let  me  go !    It  was  a  trick!    You  lied  to  me !" 

O'Rane  slipped  forward  and  touched  her  wrist. 

"I  thought  you'd  be  more  comfortable  at  home,"  he 
repeated.  "You  won't  find  me  in  the  way,  I'm  going  back 
to  Melton.  I  was  only  staying  to  see  that  you  had  every- 
thing you  wanted." 

"Let  me  go !"  she  cried  again,  shaking  his  fingers  off  her 
wrist. 

"No,  I'm  going.    But  isn't  it  more  comfortable  ?" 

She  looked  stonily  round,  and  her  eyes  came  to  rest  on 
his  face. 

"Oh,  yes.  It's  more  comfortable.  Now  may  I  go, 
please?" 

"You  had  better  stay.  Let  me  help  you  upstairs,  and 
then  I'll  leave  the  house.  I  was  hoping  you'd  be  glad  to 
be  back.  And  I'd  waited  so  long." 

He  smiled  and  held  out  his  hands  to  her.  She  looked 
at  him  for  a  moment;  then  her  eyes  closed,  and  she  began 
to  sway. 

"Take  me  home !"  she  whimpered,  as  George  sprang  for- 
ward to  catch  her. 

"You  must  stay  here  to-night." 

"I  ask  you  to  take  me  home !" 

O'Rane  put  one  arm  under  her  shoulders,  and  the  other 
under  her  knees. 

"It's  too  late  now,  and  you're  tired,  darling,"  he  whis- 
pered. "To-morrow,  if  you  like.  I'm  just  going  to  carry 
you  up  to  bed,  as  I  used  to  do  at  Crowley  Court  when  you 


318  SONIA  MARRIED 

were  twelve  and  I  came  over  for  the  holidays.  Do  you  re- 
member? And  then  I'll  say  good-night,  and  Violet  will 
put  you  to  bed  and  take  care  of  you.  Don't  struggle,  Sonia 
sweetheart!  You  can't  hate  me  so  much  that  you  can't 
bear  to  let  me  touch  you  or  carry  you  up  a  flight  of  stairs 
when  you're  ill." 


As  I  kept  deafly  and  pusillanimously  to  my  room,  I  am 
far  from  sure  what  happened  during  the  remainder  of  the 
night.  O'Rane,  I  believe,  carried  his  wife  up  to  bed,  left 
her  in  charge  of  Lady  Loring  and  accepted  from  the  tired 
butler  at  Loring  House  an  armchair  in  the  library  for  his 
own  accommodation.  Bertrand  was  already  in  bed,  I  heard 
George  going  to  bed  as  the  car  started  outside;  by  two 
o'clock  all  was  quiet. 

I  remember  that,  when  I  was  young  enough  to  play 
baccarat  for  high  stakes  and  impressionable  enough  to  be 
embarrassed  by  a  scene,  I  stayed  in  a  house  where  certain 
unpleasantness  took  place  at  the  card-table.  The  dispute 
and  recriminations  were  bad  enough,  the  night  of  reflection 
— after  a  dozen  final  councils  adjourned  from  bedroom  to 
bedroom — was  worse,  but  worst  of  all  was  our  uncertain 
meeting  next  day,  when  we  stood  whispering  by  the  fire  in 
the  dining-room,  peevishly  waiting  for  breakfast  and  watch- 
ing the  door  to  see  whether  the  cause  of  the  unpleasantness 
would  shew  himself.  Bertrand,  George  and  I  stood  whis- 
pering next  morning  with  much  the  same  embarrassment; 
breakfast  lay  on  the  table,  and  none  of  us  paid  any  atten- 
tion to  it.  The  time  was  early  for  me  and  late  for  George ; 
I  have  no  idea  at  what  hour  Bertrand  usually  rose,  but  I  re- 
member he  was  soothing  himself  with  the  first  cigarette  I 
had  ever  seen  him  smoke,  at  intervals  forgetting  that  it  was 
not  a  cigar  and  trying  to  hold  it  between  his  teeth. 

Our  attitude  of  vague  expectancy  was  broken  up  by  the 
arrival  of  Lady  Loring  in  a  creased,  black  evening  dress 
with  a  travelling  rug  over  her  shoulders.  Her  eye-lids  were 
pink  with  fatigue  and  her  arms  mottled  with  cold. 


THE  DOOR  RE-OPENED  319 

"We  look  a  nice  band  of  conspirators!"  she  exclaimed. 
"Now,  will  somebody  tell  me  what  it's  all  about  ?" 

"How's  Sonia?"  George  asked. 

"She  went  to  sleep  the  moment  her  head  touched  the  pil- 
low and  she  was  sleeping  like  a  child  whenever  I  looked 
at  her.  I  think  you're  all  needlessly  alarmed  about  her,  but 
then  you're  only  men.  /'ve  been  through  it  all,  so  I  know 
exactly  what  it  feels  like  to  imagine  you're  being  neglected. 
But  what  does  anybody  want  me  to  do?" 

She  beckoned  us  to  the  table  and  sat  down  rather  wearily, 
looking  from  one  to  another. 

"The  trouble  is,  dear  lady,"  Bertrand  grunted,  "that  we 
don't  know.  I  suppose  you've  heard  that  these  two  young 
idiots  have  had  a  disagreement?  Does  that  young  woman 
upstairs  know  where  she  is?" 

"She'll  know  the  moment  she  wakes  up.    Is  David  here  ?" 

"He  said  he'd  beg  a  shakedown  at  your  house,  Violet," 
George  interrupted. 

Lady  Loring  hummed  dubiously. 

"To  judge  from  her  condition  yesterday,"  she  ventured, 
"she's  hardly  accountable  for  her  actions.  It's  not  to  be 
wondered  at,  you  know,  when  you  think  what  she's  been 
through — and  the  way  she's  lived  on  her  nerves  for  years. 
If  you'll  tell  me  what  you  want  done,  of  course  .  .  ." 

It  was  easier  to  concentrate  our  attention  on  breakfast. 
George  soon  hurried  away  to  his  office,  Bertrand  lighted  a 
cigar  and  went  off  to  a  committee  meeting,  after  stumping 
the  library  for  half  an  hour,  with  the  ends  of  his  walrus 
moustache  pulled  into  a  circle,  and  murmuring  at  five- 
minute  intervals,  "What  are  two  fat  old  men  like  us  doing 
in  this  galley?"  A  telephone  message  from  O'Rane  en- 
quired how  his  wife  was,  and  Lady  Loring  took  the  oppor- 
tunity of  arranging  with  her  maid  for  a  supply  of  clothes 
to  be  sent  round.  The  conversation  reminded  me  of  her 
vigil,  and  I  told  her  that,  if  she  would  lie  down  until  lunch- 
eon, I  would  take  a  book,  a  chafing-dish  and  a  bowl  of 
bread  and  milk  and  sit  outside  Mrs.  O'Rane's  door  in  case 
she  wanted  anything.  Half-way  through  the  morning 


320  SONIA  MARRIED 

O'Rane  tiptoed  upstairs  for  a  change  of  linen;  Bertrand 
relieved  guard  while  I  went  down  and  took  a  light  meal 
with  Lady  Loring.  It  was  not  until  three  or  four  o'clock 
that  I  heard  sounds  of  movement  within  the  sick-room. 

I  went  in  to  find  Mrs.  O'Rane  considerably  altered  since 
our  last  meeting,  but  more  collected  than  I  had  anticipated. 
She  asked  for  food  and,  when  I  had  brought  her  the  bowl 
of  bread  and  milk,  begged  me  to  stay  and  talk  to  her.  Her 
first  question  was  who  had  brought  her  to  "The  Sanctuary," 
and,  when  I  had  told  her,  she  lay  back  on  the  pillows  with 
closed  eyes  to  avoid  giving  away  any  points. 

"I  feel  better  than  I  did  yesterday,"  she  said  at  length. 
"I  shall  go  back  to  my  own  rooms  to-day." 

"You'll  be  wiser  to  stay  here." 

She  smiled  rather  sneeringly. 

"You  think  it's  the  simplest  thing  in  the  world  for  me 
to  stay  here." 

"The  wisest,"  I  corrected  her.  "Your  husband's  not  here, 
by  the  way,  and  you  can  be  sure  of  being  well  looked 
after." 

"Oh,  don't  say  that  again!  You  think  it's  easy  for  me 
to  lie  here  and  be  looked  after  by  people  who  despise  me 
and  hate  me.  .  .  ." 

I  got  up  and  lifted  the  tray  from  her  bed. 

"I'm  going  to  leave  you  now,"  I  said.  "Sleeping's  much 
better  for  you  than  talking,  and  I'm  afraid  I've  got  rather 
a  faculty  for  getting  on  your  nerves." 

Her  lower  lip  at  once  fell  and  trembled  with  nervous  con- 
trition. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude,  but  I  do  feel  so  ill!  And  you 
do  all  hate  me!  To  bring  me  her  el" 

She  gave  a  single  breathless  sob,  and  tears  began  to 
well  into  her  eyes  and  trickle  down  her  cheeks.  I  pulled 
a  chair  to  the  bedside  and  took  her  hand. 

"The  older  I  get,"  I  said,  "the  greater  disparity  I  find 
between  the  theory  and  practice  of  hating.  Theoretically 
I  hate  no  end  of  a  lot  of  people,  but,  if  I  had  the  power 
of  venting  my  hatred  on  them,  I  don't  see  myself  using  it 


THE  DOOR  RE-OPENED  321 

much.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  had  a  talk  with  George  the 
other  night  about  you ;  I  said  that  the  madcap  life  here  was 
fantastically  impossible,  that  your  husband  had  himself  to 
blame  more  than  any  other  man  for  driving  you  out  of  the 
house " 

"That  wasn't  why  I  left  him,"  she  interrupted  quickly. 

"You  didn't  leave  him  because  you  thought  he  was  un- 
faithful to  you." 

"I  know  he  was.    I  had  proofs." 

"Supplied  by  Grayle?"  I  hazarded.  She  looked  at  me 
steadily  without  answering.  "Well,  when  you've  time,  I 
should  re-examine  those  proofs  in  the  light  of  your  general 
knowledge  of  your  husband.  If  you're  interested  in  my 
opinion  of  you" — her  eyes  lit  up  eagerly — "you'd  sooner  be 
insulted  than  ignored,  wouldn't  you?" — expectancy  gave 
way  to  affected  anger — "Well,  I  don't  hate  you,  but  you 
were  a  little  fool  to  marry  such  a  man ;  your  instinct,  your 
knowledge  of  life,  your  knowledge  of  him  ought  to  have 
made  it  impossible.  Having  married  him  and  considering 
his  affliction,  I  blame  you  for  not  effacing  yourself,  obliterat- 
ing your  own  individuality  to  stay  with  him.  After 
that "  I  dropped  her  hand  and  strolled  to  the  win- 
dow. "You  were  young,  entitled  to  make  your  own  life; 
it's  not  easy  to  justify,  but  it  seems  to  follow  almost  natu- 
rally from  the  premisses.  It  happens  to  have  turned  out 
a  failure,  but  no  one  can  hate  you  for  an  error  of  judge- 
ment, particularly  when  you've  shewn  that  your  instinct 
about  men  is  unreliable ;  you  shewed  it  with  O'Rane,  I  be- 
lieve you  shewed  it  before  .  .  .  and  fortunately  pulled  up 
before  it  was  too  late.  I  feel  this  so  strongly  that  I  told 
O'Rane  it  would  be  a  tragedy,  if  you  ever  tried  to  come 
back  to  him ;  there'd  be  a  second  catastrophe  worse  than  the 
first.  .  .  .  I'm  afraid  he's  too  much  in  love  with  you  to  use 
his  imagination." 

She  pressed  the  palms  of  both  hands  against  her  eyes. 

"I  can't  stay  here,"  she  exclaimed  irrelevantly.  "I've  no 
right  to  turn  David  out." 

"You  needn't  worry  about  that.    He's  given  you  the  right, 


322  SONIA  MARRIED 

and  you're  turning  him  out  for  less  than  a  week.    For  the 
matter  of  that " 

Her  face  grew  suddenly  set  and  her  eyes  scornful.  "I 
suppose  in  spite  of  all  the  fine  words  this  is  all  a  trick  to  try 
and  force  me  back  here  ?" 

"I've  not  the  least  doubt  that  O'Rane  hopes  you'll  return 
to  him,"  I  told  her  frankly;  "he  probably  will,  even  when 
he  knows  what's  the  matter  with  you, — no,  he  doesn't  know 
even  that  at  present ; — but  he's  living  in  a  fool's  paradise." 

With  another  of  her  quick  facial  regroupings — which  is 
the  only  phrase  I  can  find  to  indicate  the  shortening  of  a 
line  here,  its  lengthening  there,  the  droop  or  lift  of  the 
corners  of  her  mouth,  the  dilatation  of  a  pupil,  the  sudden 
gleam  which  turned  her  brown  eyes  almost  golden,  the  tilt 
of  the  nose  or  the  sudden  birth  of  a  dimple — she  was  smil- 
ing with  her  old  demure  self-confidence. 

"I'm  vain  enough  to  think  I  can  make  almost  any  man 
want  to  live  with  me,"  she  said,  darting  a  glance  from  be- 
neath lowered  eyelashes. 

"Come,  that's  more  like  yourself !"  I  laughed. 

Thereupon  the  smiles  and  coquetry  vanished  as  though 
I  had  struck  her  in  the  face.  Yes,  I  had  always  hated  her, 
always  disapproved  of  her,  regarded  her  as  a  flirt,  taken 
everyone's  side  against  her.  There  was  no  good  in  her, 
was  there?  Nothing  ever  to  be  said  in  her  defence?  .  .  . 
She  lashed  herself  from  one  fury  to  another  for  ten  min- 
utes, only  stopping  from  exhaustion  and  discouragement  at 
my  failure  to  answer. 

"I  could  make  him  love  me!"  she  panted  in  conclusion. 
"I  shouldn't  even  need  to  make  him,  he's  in  love  with  me 
now.  But  /  could  make  him  happy.  You  think  I  can't. 
You  think  I  can't !  You  know  you  think  I  can't !" 

I  laid  my  hand  on  hers ;  she  slapped  at  it  petulantly,  but 
without  any  great  desire  to  hurt,  I  fancied. 

"Mrs  O'Rane " 

"Why  don't  you  call  me  Sonia?"  she  interrupted  with 
complete  detachment  from  all  that  we  had  been  discussing. 


THE  DOOR  RE-OPENED  323 

"Everyone  does.  I  suppose  you  prefer  to  keep — at  a  dis- 
tance!" 

And  then  I  did  a  thing  which  still  surprises  me.  I  got 
up  and  sat  on  the  edge  of  her  bed.  (There  was  a  spring- 
mattress  which  I  largely  capsized,  so  that  she  was  thrown 
half  on  her  side.)  I  put  one  arm  round  her  shoulders, 
drew  her  to  me  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead  and  both 
cheeks.  I  remember  thinking  at  the  time  what  an  amazing 
thing  it  was  to  do,  and  the  thought  was  confused  with  a 
knowledge  that  her  face  was  dry  and  burning.  She  put  her 
arms  on  my  shoulders  and  returned  the  kiss ;  quite  dispas- 
sionately I  noticed  that  her  lips  were  crumpled  and  dry  as 
brown  paper. 

"Don't  you  think  you're  really  rather  a  silly  baby,  Sonia  ?" 
I  said.  "If  you  could  remember  the  times  we've  met,  I 
should  tell  you  frankly  that  for  half  of  them  I  wanted  to 
go  away  and  keep  at  the  farthest  possible  distance.  For 
the  other  half " 

Her  eyes  brightened  in  anticipation  of  a  compliment. 

"Well?" 

"It  doesn't  matter  now.  Why  won't  you  believe  that 
everyone  here  wants  to  help  you  ?" 

"Because  I  don't  see  why  they  should.  I  didn't  expect 
it,  I  don't  ask  for  it ;  I  made  up  my  mind  at  the  time  .  .  ." 

She  choked  and  drew  herself  closer  to  me,  sobbing  quietly 
but  inconsolably  until  I  felt  her  arms  relaxing  and  laid  her 
back  on  the  pillows,  a  pathetically  disfigured  and  moist  piece 
of  something  that  was  above  all  wonderfully  youthful. 

"If  you'll  promise  not  to  cry,  I'll  stay  and  talk  to  you," 
I  said.  "Otherwise "  I  must  have  made  some  uncon- 
scious movement,  for  she  clutched  at  my  sleeve.  "Do  you 
promise?  Well,  I'm  only  a  man.  ..." 

She  pulled  herself  suddenly  upright. 

"Where's  David?"  she  demanded. 

"At  Loring  House,  I  believe, — only  a  man,  as  I  was  say- 
ing, but  I  can  tell  you  that  you'll  wear  yourself  out,  if  you 
go  on  like  this.  You've  got  a  great  grievance  against  all 
of  us,  you  say  we  hate  you  and  despise  you;  wouldn't  it 


324  SONIA  MARRIED 

be  fairer  not  to  say  that  till  we've  given  you  some  better 
cause  than  you've  had  at  present?" 

Her  teeth  snapped  like  the  cracking  of  a  nut.  Then  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  drooped,  and  she  began  to  cry  again. 

"If  you  would  hit  me!"  Her  head  fell  back  until  I  could 
see  only  a  quivering  throat  and  the  under  side  of  her  chin. 
"My  God !  what  I've  been  through !  No  one  knows !  No 
one  can  ever  know !" 

I  gave  her  some  water  to  drink  and  asked  leave  to  light 
a  cigarette. 

"When  I  was  a  small  boy,"  I  said,  "there  was  a  big 
oak  press  in  my  bedroom  which  used  to  reflect  the  firelight 
until  I  thought  that  all  manner  of  goblins  were  coming  out 
to  attack  me.  I  never  got  rid  of  the  idea  until  I  was  shewn 
inside  it  by  daylight — I  remember  it  was  full  of  the  drawing- 
room  summer  chintzes; — then  I  never  feared  it  again. 
Does  it  help  you  to  talk  about  things,  Sonia?" 

Her  face  set  itself  again,  but  this  time  in  resolution.  For 
two  hours  I  listened  to  the  most  terribly  frank  self-revela- 
tion that  I  am  ever  likely  to  hear.  Like  a  sinner  worked 
up  to  make  confession,  she  told  me  of  her  life  from  the 
age  of  sixteen,  when  she  had  fallen  romantically  in  love 
with  O'Rane  and  when  her  mother  had,  quite  properly,  told 
her  not  be  ridiculous.  For  years  she  had  been  incited — 
I  had  almost  written  "excited" — to  make  a  great  match ;  she 
had  rushed  into  an  engagement  with  an  honoured  title,  half 
feeling  all  the  time  that  she  was  pledged  to  the  trappings 
of  a  man  rather  than  to  the  man  himself;  and,  when  the 
engagement  ended,  she  had  set  herself,  like  a  prisoner  at 
the  triangles,  to  shew  that  it  did  not  hurt,  that  she  was 
not  going  to  allow  her  capacity  for  enjoyment  to  be  killed ; 
and,  when  her  own  people  looked  askance  at  her,  she  had 
traded  her  charms  among  others  who  fawned  on  her  and 
whom  she  despised.  The  outbreak  of  war  found  her  un- 
placed— without  mission  or  niche;  she  had  thrown  herself 
into  war-work — and  broken  down,  she  had  lain  useless, 
neglected  and  tacitly  contemned  until  she  met  O'Rane, 
blind  and  icily  self -sufficient. 


THE  DOOR  RE-OPENED  325 

Then  she  had  married  him  in  the  delirium  of  self-immo- 
lation, only  to  find  that  his  passionate  idealism  for  the  future 
was  transmuted  into  a  white-hot  zest  to  perfect  the  present. 
He  was  prepared  to  practise  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  in  a 
tweed  suit  and  soft  hat.  For  a  month  she  shared  his  life 
as  she  would  have  partaken  of  an  impromptu  mid-night 
picnic  in  the  Green  Park.  Then  a  homing  instinct  had  re- 
belled against  the  promiscuous  publicity  of  their  life,  she 
had  felt  that  his  love  for  her  was  diluted  beyond  taste  by 
a  vague  devotion  to  mankind.  She  had  treasured  slights 
where  no  slights  were  intended  and  vented  irritabilities 
where  none  was  justified.  His  smiling  patience  had  evoked 
a  sense  of  hopelessness,  followed  by  a  desire  for  self-asser- 
tion. They  had  quarrelled,  and,  rather  than  admit  herself 
in  the  wrong,  she  had  blindly  groped  for  evidence  against 
him  which  the  heat  of  inconvertible  resentment  would  tor- 
ture her  into  believing.  Grayle  had  supplied  it.  ... 

She  told  me  unreservedly  of  the  conflicting  influences 
upon  her  of  three  men  at  the  same  time.  All  were  in  love 
with  her  after  their  kind.  O'Rane  himself,  most  sympa- 
thetic with  men  and  least  understanding  of  women,  gave  her 
the  keys  and  cheque-book  of  his  life,  imagining  that  unde- 
monstrative, uncaressing  fidelity  would  meet  with  like  re- 
turn ;  Beresf ord  offered  a  romantic  devotion  which  posed  her 
frigidly  among  mountain  snows  and  would  have  sent  him 
through  fire  to  avenge  an  insult  to  his  idealised  conception. 
And  Grayle  had  strode  in,  compelling  and  indifferent,  slight- 
ing and  frightening  her  alternately,  at  a  time  when  she  was 
instinctively  yearning  to  be  called  to  order,  taken  in  hand, 
shaken  and  even  beaten. 

"I  was  like  the  'Punch'  picture  of  the  woman  in  a 
thunderstorm,"  she  laughed.  "I  wanted  a  man  there  just 
to  tell  me  not  to  make  a  fool  of  myself.  Poor  David  never, 
never  .  .  ." 

Grayle  desired  her  until  she  felt  safe  in  playing  with 
him,  then  he  neglected  her  until  in  pique  she  set  out  to 
try  the  temper  of  her  charms ;  ultimately  he  terrorised  her 


326  SONIA  MARRIED 

into  a  surrender  which  neither  blind  trust  nor  deaf  devo- 
tion could  compass. 

She  told  me  of  her  mood  when  she  felt  that  Grayle 
was  overpowering  her,  of  her  drunken  willingness  to  believe 
what  she  knew  was  untrue.  She  described  her  parting  with 
O'Rane  as  she  might  have  described  herself  beating  a  child 
because  she  was  out  of  temper  and  had  to  pretend  that 
someone  else  was  in  fault.  I  was  given  an  unsparing  ac- 
count of  her  life  in  Mil  ford  Square,  which  she  entered 
with  an  unsubstantial  hope  that  she  would  find  love  and  a 
quivering  sense  that  she  had  come  like  a  dog  to  be  beaten. 
Not  a  day  and  night  had  passed  before  she  found  that  she 
had  outstayed  her  welcome,  that  she  was  pressing  on  him 
for  all  his  life  what  he  desired  for  an  unoccupied  after- 
noon. Their  life  together  was  like  the  record  of  wife- 
beating  by  a  besotted  husband  refined  in  method  by  the  play 
of  sarcastic  wit  on  impressionable  senses.  At  last  there 
had  come  a  day  when  he  put  into  words  the  taunt  that 
hitherto  lacked  only  verbal  clarity;  she  riposted  with  the 
charge  that  he  was  discarding  her  to  clear  the  way  to  his 
political  ambitions;  every  hoarded  grudge  and  bitterness 
was  dragged  into  the  light,  unseemly  reproaches  were  ut- 
tered with  the  knowledge  that  all  were  exaggerated  and 
most  without  foundation;  and  in  a  breathing-space  both 
discovered  that  the  articulation  of  such  hidden  and  re- 
served acerbity  made  it  impossible  for  them  ever  to  live 
together  again. 

She  had  walked  into  the  street  with  his  last  scurrility 
stinging  her  ears  and  cheeks  until  she  found  herself  tear- 
lessly  crying.  It  was  no  use  crying,  when  she  needed  alt 
her  wits  to  decide  her  next  move,  all  her  composure  to 
face  it.  A  lodging  for  the  night  had  to  be  found  in  some 
place  where  she  would  not  be  interrogated,  and  for  long 
her  mind  wavered  slowly  from  one  to  another  of  the  neigh- 
bourhoods in  which  she  had  lived  and  which  all  the  while 
she  knew  were  the  first  for  her  to  reject — Rutland  Gate, 
Manchester  Square,  Curzon  Street,  Westminster.  It  was 
hard  to  think  of  anywhere  else;  one  needed  a  map,  one  of 


THE  DOOR  RE-OPENED  327 

those  easy  maps  that  were  pasted  on  the  walls  of  Under- 
ground stations.  .  .  . 

The  long  recital  had  exhausted  her  pent  antagonism,  and 
she  described  her  experiences  as  General  Lampwood's 
driver  with  humour  and  an  occasional  preening  of  her 
feathers. 

"One  day  I  knew  I  was  going  to  have  a  child,"  she  threw 
out  abruptly.  "It — it  made  me  quite  ill.  Then — well,  you 
know  the  rest.  I'm  not  complaining.  I  never  thought  it 
was  going  to  be  easy  or  pleasant,  but,  if  I  had  my  time 
over  again " 

"I  think  not,  Sonia,"  I  said. 

"I  never  expected  a  bed  of  roses,"  she  answered  haught- 
ily. Then  she  suddenly  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 
"You  mean  I'm  not  through  with  it  yet?  Mr.  Stornaway, 
is  it — is  it  as  bad  as  people  say  ?  I'm  not  a  coward,  really ; 
I  don't  believe  I  should  mind  if  I  wanted  it,  if  I  were  pray- 
ing for  a  child,  if  it  was  going  to  be  a  child  I  should 
love.  .  .  .  That  was  what  made  me  ill.  When  I  first  knew 
and  I  remembered  the  awful  day  when  he  turned  me  out 
of  the  house  ...  I  wanted  to  kill  myself.  There  was  a 
big  motor  lorry  racing  along  Knightsbridge,  and  I  made  up 
my  mind  to  step  in  front  ...  as  if  I  hadn't  heard  it.  I 
stood  on  the  kerb  and  put  one  foot  forward.  .  .  .  Oh,  but  I 
wanted  to  live  so  badly!  I  couldn't,  I  simply  couldn't! 
It  was  like  tearing  myself  in  two  with  my  own  hands.  I 
just  had  time  to  think  of  next  spring  and  all  the  early 
flowers  coming  up.  ...  And  then  I  knew  that  I  should 
have  to  go  through  with  it!" 

Her  eyes  closed,  and  she  lay  without  speaking  until  I 
made  sure  that  she  was  asleep.  I  was  treading  lightly  to 
the  door  when  she  called  out  and  asked  to  be  supplied  with 
paper  and  a  pencil. 

"You're  just  in  the  mood  to  go  to  sleep,"  I  protested. 

She  shook  her  head  obstinately. 

"I  couldn't  sleep,  if  I  tried.  You  say  David's  at  Loring 
House?" 


328  SONIA  MARRIED 

"He  spent  last  night  there  and  looked  in  here  this  morn- 
ing for  clean  clothes.  I've  no  idea  where  he  is  now." 

She  looked  at  me  with  the  set,  unrevealing  expression 
which  I  had  seen  once  or  twice  already. 

"Let  me  know  if  he  comes  in  to-morrow,"  she  said. 

We  had  not  to  wait  so  long,  for  O'Rane,  behind  the  pre- 
text of  packing  books  and  clothes  for  his  return  to  Melton, 
came  in  after  dinner  and  examined  me  keenly  on  the  condi- 
tion of  his  wife.  I  mentioned  that  she  had  hinted  at  a  desire 
to  see  him  or  at  least  to  know  his  whereabouts,  and,  for 
all  his  control  of  himself,  O'Rane's  face  was  transfigured. 

"I'm — here  now,"  he  said  significantly. 

"That  means  I'm  to  go  up  and  find  out  if  she  wants  to 
see  you  and  if  Lady  Loring  will  let  her?" 

There  was  a  sound  of  voices,  as  I  knocked  at  the  door — 
the  nurse  mildly  begging  her  patient  to  go  to  sleep,  Sonia 
resolutely  and  not  too  petulantly  protesting  that  she  had 
just  finished.  I  delivered  myself  of  my  message,  while  she 
sat  turning  over  a  pile  of  manuscript  and  trying  to  read  it 
and  listen  to  me  at  the  same  time. 

"Will  you  look  at  this?"  she  said  at  length. 

She  had  written  a  condensed  but  pitiless  version  of  the 
story  which  she  had  told  me,  starting  with  the  day  when 
she  had  chosen  to  believe  that  O'Rane  was  unfaithful  to 
her  and  ending  with  the  morning  when  she  knew  that  she 
was  going  to  bear  Grayle  a  child. 

"It's  not  very  legible,"  she  commented  casually.  "My 
writing's  not  up  to  much  at  the  best  of  times,  but  when 
I'm  in  bed  it's  hopeless." 

"I  can  read  it,"  I  said. 

"I  want  you  to  read  it  to  David,"  she  went  on  in  the 
same  tone. 

I  raised  my  eyebrows,  but  said  nothing. 

"Will  you  do  that  for  me?"  she  asked. 

"If  you  wish  it." 

"Thank  you  very  much.  Now  I  think  I  shall  go  to 
sleep." 

I  went  downstairs  and  led  O'Rane  to  the  far  end  of  the 


THE  DOOR  RE-OPENED  329 

library.  He  stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his 
back  to  the  fire,  rocking  in  his  old  way  from  heel  to  toe. 

"Have  you  read  it  ?"  he  asked  me,  when  I  had  explained 
his  wife's  request. 

"Yes." 

He  held  out  his  hand  for  the  papers. 

"And  you  remember  everything  she  said?" 

'Tretty  well." 

He  rocked  in  silence  for  a  moment  and  then  smiled 
whimsically. 

"I  suppose  you  could — forget  it,  if  you  tried?"  he  sug- 
gested. "Perhaps  it  would  help  you  to  forget  it,  if  we  got 
rid  of  this.  I  usually  burn  myself  when  I  start  playing 
with  fire ;  perhaps  you  wouldn't  mind  putting  this  in.  Don't 
set  the  chimney  alight,  will  you?" 


The  next  morning  I  again  mounted  guard,  while  Lady 
Loring  rested.  We  had  agreed  that,  if  no  change  for  the 
worse  shewed  itself,  it  would  be  quite  unnecessary  to  con- 
tinue this  day  and  night  attendance.  Physically  Sonia  was 
quite  normal,  but  her  nerves  were  unstrung,  and  for  a  time 
it  had  certainly  looked  as  if  hysteria  might  develop  into 
something  graver.  Two  nights'  untroubled  sleep,  the  be- 
lated recognition  that  she  was  among  friends  and,  most  of 
all,  the  relief  of  confession  had  braced  her  and  built  up 
her  self-respect.  When  I  went  in  to  see  her  she  was  still 
a  little  defiant,  but  it  was  the  defiance  of  courage. 

"Is  David  here  ?"  was  her  first  question. 

"He  went  bacK  to  Loring  House  when  he'd  finished  his 
packing,"  I  answered. 

Sonia  looked  at  me  in  silence,  and  her  eyes  narrowed. 

"Oh !    So  that's  it,"  she  murmured  at  length. 

"What  is  what?"  I  asked. 

She  sighed  carelessly. 

"You  were  right,  and  he  was  wrong,  that's  all.  I  was 
right  too.  ...  I  knew  that,  when  I  left  this  house,  I'd  left 


330  SONIA  MARRIED 

David  for  good ;  if  I  hadn't  known  it  then,  I  knew  it  when 
— when  we  came  here  that  night  and  he  offered  to  drop  the 
divorce  if  I'd  leave — you  remember?  He  thought  he  was 
somehow  so  different  from  other  men.  .  .  .  What  did  he 
actually  say?" 

"He  didn't  say  anything,  Sonia.  I  think  you're  on  the 
wrong  tack.  He  just  asked  if  I'd  read  the  letter  and  if  I 
remembered  it.  I  said  'Yes.'  Then  he  smiled  and  begged 
me  to  forget  it." 

"But  didn't  you  read  it  to  him?" 

''He  asked  me  to  burn  it." 

She  looked  at  me  for  some  moments  without  under- 
standing, then  pulled  herself  lower  into  the  bed  and  half 
turned  away,  shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand.  I  walked  to 
the  window  and  gave  her  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to 
order  her  thoughts.  At  the  end  I  asked  her  why  she  had 
written  the  letter. 

"I  felt  I  owed  it  to  him,"  she  said  slowly.  "I  don't  regret 
it,  though  I  suppose  it's  a  selfish  sort  of  gratification.  .  .  . 
If  he'd  left  me  alone,  I  should  have  said  nothing,  but  when 
he  went  out  of  his  way  to  have  me  brought  here  and  looked 
after  .  .  .  I — suppose  it's  very  magnanimous  to  burn  a  let- 
ter of  that  kind  without  reading  it,  but  I'd  sooner  have 
had  him  read  it.  If  he  comes  here,  I  shall  have  to  tell  him 
....  at  least  that  I'm  going  to  have  a  child.  Please  don't 
think  that  I'm  running  away  from  what  I've  done.  I'm  not 
trying  to  work  on  his  feelings,  I'm  not  trying  to  make  him 
take  me  back;  I  couldn't  go  back,  if  he  begged  me,  if  his 
life  depended  on  it." 

"Then  it  doesn't  matter  much  whether  he  reads  the  letter 
or  not." 

Sonia  nodded  slowly. 

"I  must  see  David,  though." 

"It  will  upset  you  without  doing  him  any  good." 

She  bit  her  lip  to  steady  herself. 

"Perhaps  it  will  cure  him,"  she  suggested. 

I  was  not  present  when  they  met;  I  do  not  even  know 
how  long  they  were  together.  Sometime  before  dinner 


THE  DOOR  RE-OPENED  331 

O'Rane  came  into  the  library  and  sat  down  in  front  of  the 
fire  without  speaking.  From  his  haggard  face  I  guessed 
that  he  had  been  taken  as  much  by  surprise  as  any  of  us. 
During  dinner  he  roused  himself  with  an  effort,  and  I 
remember  that  we  discussed  the  coming  unrestricted  sub- 
marine campaign,  the  danger  of  starvation,  the  inadequacy 
of  our  food  control  and  the  likelihood  of  finding  America 
ranged  on  our  side  in  the  war.  We  talked  very  earnestly — 
I  believe,  very  intelligently, — as  though  we  had  a  critical 
audience  and  were  shewing  our  best  form ;  but  it  was  won- 
derfully unengrossing. 

"It's  just  a  year  since  I  was  in  America,"  I  remember 
beginning  in  preface  to  some  new  argument. 

"I  say — she  told  you  everything,  didn't  she?"  O'Rane 
interrupted. 

"Yes." 

He  forced  a  smile. 

"It  rather — brings  it  home  to  one,  doesn't  it?" 

"And  yet — is  this  any  worse  for  you  than  when  they 
were  living  together  ?" 

"I  was  really  not  thinking  of  myself  for  the  moment. 
My  God,  Stornaway,  if  you  were  a  woman  and  hated  a 
man  as  she  hates  Grayle,  how  would  you  like  to  be  feeling 
that  he'd  had  anything  to  do  with  your  child,  how'd  you 
like  to  go  through  all  this  hell  of  childbirth  to  bear  him, 
a  child?  All  your  life,  even  if  you  came  to  love  it  or  at 
least  to  be  kind  to  it,  you'd  always  be  reminded,  wouldn't 
you  ?  You'd  trace  a  likeness,  it  would  seem  to  get  stronger 
and  stronger.  ...  I  wonder  what  we  should  do?" 

"I  imagine  most  women  would  try  to  stop  the  child  being 
born." 

O'Rane  looked  up  quickly. 

"Sonia  wouldn't." 

"Then  I'm  afraid  she's  got  to  accept  this  as  her  punish- 
ment." 

"Hers?"  he  murmured. 

I  made  no  answer,  but  my  mind  went  back  to  the  lunch- 
eon at  Crowley  Court,  when  Roger  Dainton  sat  with 


332  SONIA  MARRIED 

drooping  mouth  and  troubled  brown  eyes,  wondering  if  he 
had  heard  aright  that  his  own  daughter  was  likely  to  be 
divorced,  waiting  to  wake  up  from  the  bad  dream.  And 
I  remembered  Lady  Dainton.  She  had  an  adequate  allow- 
ance of  maternal  feeling,  I  doubt  not,  but  on  that  day  she 
was  less  moved  by  Sonia's  plight  than  by  a  sense  of  social 
failure,  of  a  rare  and  delicate  instrument  broken — as  if 
after  twenty  years'  training  the  hand  of  the  violinist  was 
.become  paralysed. 

"It's  a  bit  one-sided,  isn't  it?"  suggested  O'Rane  quietly. 

I  still  said  nothing.  Grayle  was  being  punished  in  the 
one  part  of  him  that  I  knew  to  be  capable  of  feeling,  but 
perhaps  the  punishment  did  not  stop  there.  For  all  I  could 
tell  he  might  in  time  know  a  pang  of  desire  to  see  his  own 
child.  O'Rane's  black  eyes  were  sunk  low  in  their  sockets. 

"It's  damnably  all-embracing,"  I  said. 

He  pushed  his  chair  back  and  returned  to  the  fire,  where 
he  threw  himself  on  a  sofa. 

"D'you  know  where  George  is  dining  to-night  ?"  he  asked. 
"I  want  to  talk  to  him.  ...  I  suppose  you  think  me  a 
great  fool,  Stornaway,  for  not  seeing  it  before.  I  loved 
her  so  much,  I  love  her  so  much  still.  .  .  .  Anyone  can 
manage  a  boat  when  the  water's  calm,  it  wouldn't  have  re- 
quired much  love  just  to  live  with  Sonia  while  everything 
was  sunny,  but  I  was  prepared  to  do  so  much  more.  .  .  . 
When  I  went  down  to  Melton  the  night  after  she  left  me, 
I  set  my  teeth  and  told  myself  that  I  must  keep  my  head. 
I  knew  it  wasn't  a  trifle,  like  a  fit  of  bad  temper,  I  knew 
it  was  a  very  big  thing  she'd  done.  And  I  haven't  much 
use  for  the  kind  of  man  who  blindly  protests  beforehand 
that  he'll  forgive  his  wife  whatever  she  may  do.  ...  It 
isn't  love,  it  isn't  generosity;  it's  just  dam'  folly.  But  I 
did  feel  that  my  love  for  Sonia  would  be  a  poor,  cold 
thing,  if  it  only  lasted  while  everything  was  going  well,  if 
it  wasn't  strong  enough  to  live  through  a  bad  storm.  You 
won't  exactly  have  to  strain  yourself  to  imagine  what  it 
was  like  thinking  of  her  with  Grayle.  ...  I  don't  know 
that  I  can  explain,  it's  all  the  little  things,  the  little  personal 


THE  DOOR  RE-OPENED  333 

touches  that  I  missed — even  without  being  able  to  see  her. 
She  was  such  fun,  she  always  enjoyed  life  and  got  so 
much  out  of  it;  she  made  a  story  out  of  everything  and 
she  loved  telling  me  everything  she'd  been  doing  and  she 
knew  I  loved  hearing  about  it.  I  missed  that  frightfully 
when  I  was  alone  at  Melton,  before  she  left  me;  I  used  to 
feel  quite  jealous  when  I  thought  of  her  going  about  with 
other  people,  being  a  success,  when  I  wasn't  there  to  hear 
about  it  afterwards.  But  I  always  knew  that  I  should  be 
with  her  again  in  a  few  months.  Well,  I  felt  that  my  love 
for  her  would  be  just  like  other  people's  love,  if  I  didn't  first 
of  all  mind  like  hell  and  then  recognise  that  in  spite  of  it 
all,  in  spite  of  it  all  .  .  .  You  saw  me  trying  to  get  her  away 
from  him — for  her  own  sake;  it  honestly  was;  I  tried  to 
keep  myself  in  the  background.  You  know  I  always  hoped 
she'd  come  back.  But  now  .  .  ." 

He  drew  his  legs  up  under  him  and  sat  with  his  chin 
on  his  fists. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  I  asked. 

"That's  what  I  wanted  to  see  George  about.  She  must 
have  the  house  as  long  as  she  wants  it,  and  I'll  try  to  per- 
suade Violet  to  come  and  look  after  her  regularly  when 
the  time  draws  near.  Then  if  she'd  like  to  go  on  living 
here  .  .  .  You  see,  there's  rather  an  important  money  ques- 
tion. I've  got  the  freehold,  so  there's  no  rent  to  pay, 
but  Bertrand  runs  the  place.  He  won't  stay  on  with  her 
and  without  me,  and  I  doubt  if  we  can  afford  the  upkeep 
by  ourselves.  I  shall  make  myself  responsible  for  Sonia, 
of  course,  but  we  shall  have  to  cut  things  pretty  fine. 
George  is  my  trustee,  and  I  wanted  to  discuss  it  with  him. 
...  As  regards  the  child  .  .  ."  He  paused,  and  I  could  see 
him  furtively  moistening  his  lips.  "Something's  got  to  be 
done  about  that.  It  will  be  Sonia's  child,  and,  whoever  else 
is  to  blame,  the  kid  mustn't  suffer.  If  I  make  George  trus- 
tee of  a  fund  .  .  .  That  gives  him  an  official  status,  you  see ; 
he'd  have  a  voice  in  the  upbringing  of  the  child,  the  educa- 
tion— I  don't  trust  a  woman  by  herself " 

"Are  you — recognising  the  child?"  I  asked. 


334  SONIA  MARRIED 

"Certainly."  He  smiled  for  the  first  time.  "Poor  little 
devil!  it  will  have  as  much  right  to  my  name  as  I  have. 
I  daresay  you  know  that  my  father  ran  away  with  some- 
one else's  wife?  Ever  since  the  smash  came — I'd  never 
thought  of  it  before — I've  been  wondering  how  the  other 
man  felt.  Fellow  called  Raynter — he  was  at  the  Legation 
at  Berne.  My  father  ran  away  with  her,  and  Raynter 
wouldn't  divorce  her.  .  .  .  I've  never  precisely  liked  being 
illegitimate,  because  it  seemed  a  reflection  on  my  father, 
but  I  always  used  to  think  there  was  a  certain  amount  of 
romance  about  the  whole  thing.  .  .  .  Bertrand  knew  my 
mother;  he  says  she  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  women 
in  Europe;  my  father  loved  her  and  they  were  frightfully 
happy  for  the  little  time  that  they  lived  together  before 
I  was  born.  I — I  thought  it  was  very  fine  and  plucky  of 
them.  .  .  .  But  lately  I've  been  wondering  what  Raynter 
thought  of  it  all,  what  kind  of  life  he  had.  I  believe  he 
loved  my  mother  too,  and  it  killed  her  when  I  was  born. 
I  wonder  what  he  thought  of  the  man  who'd  killed  his 
wife.  ...  I  suppose  you  never  met  him  in  your  diplomatic 
wanderings  ?" 

"No.  He  left  the  service  immediately  after  what  you've 
been  describing." 

"What  happened  to  him?" 

"I  believe  he  took  to  drink,"  I  said. 

O'Rane  made  a  sound  of  disgust. 

"But  perhaps  it's  just  because  it  doesn't  appeal  to  me  .  .  ." 
he  apologised.  "I  certainly  did  hope  to  be  finished  off  in 
France  after  I'd  lost  my  sight,  but  there's  such  a  tenacity 
about  life.  I'm  glad  I  pulled  through,  even  to  be  where 
I  am  and  as  I  am  now.  Yes,  I've  been  feeling  that  there 
may  be  rather  more  to  say  for  Raynter  and—I  suppose — 
rather  less — for  my  father." 

He  fell  to  musing,  and  I  smoked  in  silence  until  George 
came  in.  Then  we  had  the  discussion  re-opened ;  Bertrand 
returned  from  the  House  at  eleven,  and  I  heard  it  a  third 
time.  If  O'Rane  hoped  for  advice  or  comfort,  I  am  afraid 


THE  DOOR  RE-OPENED  33$ 

he  did  not  get  it,  though  Bertrand  did  indeed  tell  him  bluntly 
that  he  was  burdening  himself  needlessly. 

"I  could  have  got  rid  of  it  all  by  divorcing  her,"  was  the 
only  answer. 

"You're  not  responsible  for  the  child." 

"Somebody's  got  to  be." 

Bertrand  sighed  and  held  his  peace,  while  George  and 
O'Rane  talked  in  undertones. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  yourself  ?"  I  asked. 

"I've  hardly  thought.  You  see,  until  four  hours  ago 
I'd  always  contemplated  having  Sonia  as — as  part  of  my 
life.  I've  got  to  think  things  out  afresh.  .  .  .  But  there's 
plenty  of  time.  For  the  present,  of  course,  I'm  going  back 
to  Melton.  To-morrow." 

"Have  you  said  good-bye  to  Sonia?"  George  enquired. 
"I  mean,  have  I  got  to  explain  all  this  to  her?" 

O'Rane  hesitated  in  doubt. 

"I'm  not  quite  sure.  You  see,  she  said  she  wanted  to 
tell  me  something,  and  I  went  in,  and  then  she  told  me  that 
she  was  going  to  have  a  child.  I  can't  say  if  I  shewed 
anything — more  than  surprise,  I  mean.  I  said — I  really 
don't  know  what  I  did  say.  We  talked  about  how  she  was, 
and  I  said  I  hoped  she  was  better,  and  was  there  anything 
that  she  wanted?  And  she  asked  me  when  I  was  going 
back  to  Melton.  ...  I  told  her  to  let  me  know  if  there 
was  anything  I  could  do.  .  .  .  We  didn't  take  any  formal 
farewell,  but  I  came  away  as  soon  as  I  could,  we  weren't 
either  of  us  enjoying  it  very  much." 

"You  gather  that  she  proposes  to  stay  here?" 

"I  think  so.  And  I  should  tell  anyone  who  asks.  This 
is  the  natural  place  for  her  to  be,  her  friends  may  as  well 
come  to  see  her.  I  shall  get  over  to  Crowley  Court  as 
soon  as  I  can  and  tell  her  parents  .  .  .  and  I  think  the  best 
thing  I  can  do  is  to  find  work  of  some  kind  abroad.  We've 
thrown  dust  in  everyone's  eyes  for  fairly  long,  but  it  can't 
go  on  indefinitely,  if  she's  living  here  and  I  never  come 
near  the  place.  ...  I  don't  know  yet ;  I  haven't  had  time  to 
think.  I  never  thought  that  her  having  a  child  by  someone 


336  SONIA  MARRIED 

else  could  suddenly  make  all  the  difference,  but  it  has.  I'm 
not  angry  with  her,  or  aggrieved,  or  anything  of  that  kind, 
but  I've  just  discovered  that  she  doesn't  belong  to  me  any 
more.  I'd  still  do  anything  she  asked  me  to  do,  but  some- 
thing's been  killed,  something's  been  taken  away.  ...  If 
only  someone  else  were  going  to  benefit  by  it!  I  believe 
I  could  forgive  Grayle,  if  he'd  proved  that  he  was  making 
her  happier  than  I'd  done.  .  .  .  We  haven't  made  much  of 
a  success,  have  we?" 

He  smiled  wistfully,  and  his  face  looked  suddenly  older, 
as  if  the  accumulated  strain  of  years  had  exhausted  him. 
Bertrand  took  his  arm  and  told  him  to  go  to  bed.  George 
and  I  got  off  our  chairs  and  waited  without  knowing  what 
to  do. 

"Is  Violet  on  duty?"  he  asked.  "If  you're  all  going  up, 
I'll  come  with  you  and  see  if  Sonia  wants  anything." 

The  bedroom  door  was  ajar,  and  I  saw  Lady  Loring 
reading  a  book.  She  raised  one  finger  warningly,  as  O'Rane 
came  into  the  room;  then  remembered  that  he  could  not 
see  the  signal  and  touched  his  wrist. 

"Is  she  asleep  ?"  he  whispered. 

"Yes." 

He  felt  his  way  to  the  bed  and  ran  one  hand  lightly  over 
the  blankets  until  it  reached  the  pillow.  Then  he  bent 
slowly  forward,  listening  to  his  own  breathing,  and  kissed 
his  wife  on  the  forehead. 

"You'll  look  after  her  well,  won't  you,  Violet  ?"  he  said, 
as  they  came  to  the  door. 

"Trust  me,  David,"  she  whispered.  "I'll  do  all  I  can,  and 
we'll  get  in  a  regular  nurse  to-morrow." 

It  may  have  been  fatigue,  but  I  thought  that  she  was 
looking  worried. 

"You  told  me  this  morning,"  I  said,  "that  a  nurse  wasn't 
necessary  any  more  for  the  present." 

"I  didn't  think  so — then,  but  she's  not  quite  so  well  to- 
night. We  mustn't  talk  here,  or  we  shall  wake  her.  You 
didn't  say  anything  to  upset  her,  did  you,  David?" 

"I  hope  not.    What's  been  the  matter?" 


THE  DOOR  RE-OPENED  337 

We  came  into  the  passage,  and  George  and  Bertrand  con- 
siderately whispered  good-night  and  left  us.  I  would  have 
gone,  too,  but  O'Rane  had  slipped  his  arm  through  mine. 

"She's  so  nervous  and  fanciful,"  Lady  Loring  explained, 
"that  she  makes  herself  quite  ill.  I  suppose,  never  having 
been  through  it  before  .  .  .  To-night  she  was  quite  ridicu- 
lous. Didn't  it  sometimes  happen  in  bad  cases  that  the 
mother  or  the  child  had  to  be  sacrificed?  Well,  what  hap- 
pened then?  And  who  decided?  She  worked  herself  up 
into  the  most  pitiful  state,  imagining  herself  unconscious 
and  at  the  mercy  of  a  mere  brutal  man,  who  could  order 
her  to  be  killed."  Lady  Loring  looked  through  the  open 
door  and  smiled  compassionately.  ''She's  so  afraid  of 
dying,  David,  that  it  never  occurs  to  her  that  this  sort  of 
thing  is  happening  every  hour  of  the  day  and  that  it's  the 
exception  for  anything  to  go  wrong.  I  don't  quite  know 
what  to  do  about  her.  .  .  ." 

O'Rane  stood  for  a  moment  without  speaking;  then  he 
disengaged  his  arm  and  said  good-night  to  us.  I  heard  him 
busying  himself  in  the  library  for  a  few  minutes ;  the  front 
door  closed  gently,  and  I  caught  the  sound  of  footsteps,  as 
he  walked  away.  The  next  morning  he  telephoned  to  ask 
how  his  wife  was.  In  the  afternoon  he  called  with  a  cab 
for  his  luggage  and  drove  to  Waterloo  without  coming 
into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT 

SANCTUARY 

".  .  .  And  I  have  waited  long  for  thee 

Before  I  poured  the  wine!" 
ROBERT  BUCHANAN:    The  Ballad  of  Judas  Iscariot. 


THE  winter  months  of  1917  passed  sadly  for  anyone  who 
was  condemned  to  live  in  the  depression  of  London.  I  was 
well  enough  to  go  back  to  work  in  February,  but  I  stayed  on 
at  "The  Sanctuary,"  because,  with  all  its  nerve-racking 
discomfort,  I  had  not  the  heart  to  go  away  when  both 
Bertrand  and  George  pressed  me  so  warmly  to  remain. 
Three,  they  said,  were  less  depressing  than  two,  though  I 
came  to  doubt  it.  For  the  tenth  time,  we  seemed  to  be 
entering  upon  the  last  decisive  phase  of  the  war;  Germany 
had  begun  her  unrestricted  submarine  campaign,  it  was  in- 
evitable that  America  should  abandon  her  neutrality.  (Since 
the  Presidential  election  and  with  every  day  that  brought 
intervention  nearer,  our  press  became  less  scornful  of  the 
President;  it  ceased  to  misquote  and  misinterpret  phrases 
about  a  nation  that  was  too  proud  to  fight  or  a  peace  with- 
out victory.)  But  the  race  would  be  hotly  contested.  The 
submarine  campaign  at  sea,  a  win-through-at-all-costs  of- 
fensive on  land  had  to  put  Germany  in  a  position  to  dictate 
terms  before  the  incalculable  weight  of  American  arms  was 
thrown  into  the  scale  against  her. 

Men  wore  grave  faces  in  those  days.  Though  few  could 
give  accurate  figures  of  the  tonnage  which  was  being  sunk 
daily  or  of  the  stocks  of  food  on  which  we  could  depend, 
everyone  knew  that  prices  had  soared  until  they  had  to 

338 


SANCTUARY  339 

be  arbitrarily  fixed  by  the  Government ;  everyone  knew  that 
already  certain  foods  were  unprocurable  and  that  the  priva- 
tions were  unlikely  to  grow  less.  Meatless  days  and  three- 
course  dinners  were  but  the  beginning,  and  Bertrand,  who 
was  by  now  almost  reconciled  to  the  continuation  of  war 
in  the  hope  that  it  would  discredit  the  new  Government, 
shook  his  head  gloomily  at  me  and  wondered  morosely 
how  long  the  proud-stomached  people  of  England  would 
consent  to  go  on  short  commons. 

And  it  was  not  only  in  food  that  the  shortage  was  being 
felt.  Omniscient  critics,  who  had  a  figure  and  a  date  ready 
for  every  question,  whispered  that,  since  the  Somme  cam- 
paign, we  were  short  of  recruits  to  the  extent  of  a  hundred 
thousand  men,  and  the  whisper,  growing  in  volume,  was  the 
signal  for  a  campaign,  half  malicious,  half  patriotic,  and 
wholly  mischievous.  The  unessential  industries  must  yield 
up  their  young  men,  the  civil  service  must  be  purged  of  its 
indispensables,  and,  that  not  even  one  fish  should  slip 
through  the  meshes  of  the  net,  those  who  had  been  ex- 
empted, rejected  or  discharged  from  the  army,  were  re- 
quired to  present  themselves  for  re-examination.  The  cam- 
paign evoked  one  flash  of  opposition,  not  serious  in  itself, 
but  of  interest  as  a  symptom  of  turbulent  discontent ;  mass 
meetings  of  discharged  soldiers,  each  with  his  silver  badge, 
assembled  to  declare  their  intention  of  not  being  sent  out 
again  until  others  had  done  their  share. 

"The  wheel  has  swung  the  full  circle  now,"  said  George 
one  night.  "I  was  up  before  a  board  to-day.  The  doctors 
seemed  to  feel  that  it  was  a  personal  score  for  them  that 
my  eyes  weren't  bad  enough  for  me  to  be  rejected;  but, 
when  they  came  to  my  heart,  they  were  quite  indignant. 
They  couldn't  pass  me  on  that,  but  it  was  a  personal  griev- 
ance and  I  shouldn't  have  been  a  bit  surprised  if  they'd 
tested  me  to  see  if  I'd  been  chewing  cordite.  ...  I  suppose 
it's  not  to  be  wondered  at;  I'm  not  as  keen  to  go  out  as  I 
was  two  and  a  half  years  ago;  I  shouldn't  be  keen  at  all, 
if  it  wasn't  for  the  feeling  that  I'm  left,  that  all  my  friends 
have  been  killed.  .  .  .  And  they  must  get  men  from  some- 


340  SONIA  MARRIED 

where.  This  Russian  revolution  is  a  very  fine  and  hopeful 
thing  in  itself,  but  the  Russians  are  so  much  absorbed  in  it 
that  they  can't  spare  time  to  bother  about  the  war,  and  the 
Germans  are  withdrawing  the  best  part  of  their  troops  from 
the  East.  /  don't  know  where  you're  going  to  get  men 
from.  The  papers  keep  yapping  about  Ireland,  but  I  won- 
der how  many  of  their  inspired  leader-writers  know  any- 
thing about  the  country." 

It  was  one  of  many  discussions,  when  George  would 
come  home  late  and  tired  from  his  office,  Bertrand  later 
and  more  tired  from  the  House. 

"If  Germany  threw  up  the  sponge  to-morrow!"  George 
began  one  night,  "what  should  we  have  gained?  The  flower 
of  our  manhood's  been  destroyed,  we're  smashed  financially, 
the  money  market  of  the  world  has  shifted  to  New  York, 
and  we  shall  spend  the  rest  of  our  days  paying  the  interest 
on  our  debt,  trying  to  repair  the  damage.  ...  I  don't  care 
to  think  of  the  labour  troubles  we're  going  to  have  when 
we  try  to  get  back  to  peace-time  rates  of  wages  or  when 
the  men  find  that  their  jobs  have  been  done  as  well  or 
better  in  their  absence  by  women.  And  what's  it  all  for? 
I  get  most  infernally  sceptical  at  times.  As  poor  Beres- 
ford  used  to  prove  with  chapter  and  verse,  in  every  war 
of  this  kind  there's  always  been  a  school  of  optimists  to 
say  that  such  a  scourge  will  never  be  seen  again.  And  it 
always  is.  ...  As  for  social  or  moral  elevation,  with  the 
spirit  of  lynch-law  and  the  methods  of  the  press-gang  .  .  . 
It'll  all  be  the  same!" 

"It  can't  be  quite  the  same  after  so  universal  a  shake- 
up,"  I  objected. 

George  shook  his  head  wisely. 

"In  the  early  days,  when  men  of  our  class  were  en- 
listing as  privates,  even  lately,  when  rankers  were  getting 
commissions,  I  used  to  think  that  some  of  our  social  angles 
would  be  rubbed  off,  but  just  you  have  five  minutes'  talk 
with  an  Old  Army  officer  about  the  'temporary  gentlemen' 
in  his  battalion,  who've  been  fighting  side  by  side  with  him, 
mark  you!  While  you're  on  the  desert  island,  your  Ad- 


SANCTUARY  341 

mirable  Crichton  may  come  to  the  top,  but  once  get  him 
back  in  London  with  a  drawing-room  and  a  servants'  hall ! 
...  I  agree  in  theory  with  people  like  Raney,  who  say 
we  must  get  value  for  the  lives  we're  spending,  but  I  can't 
do  it!  Nobody  can  do  it.  The  men  out  there  who  are 
paying  the  price  want  to  forget  about  the  whole  thing, 
they'll  come  home  at  the  end  as  they  come  home  now  on 
leave,  to  attend  to  their  own  affairs,  to  enjoy  themselves, 
to  make  up  for  lost  time  and  recapture  the  years  they've 
wasted  in  the  trenches.  And  the  people  who've  never  been 
out  have  forgoten  all  the  old  good  resolutions;  they're  as 
tired  of  the  war  as  the  soldiers,  tired  of  drudgery,  dis- 
comfort, economising;  they  want  to  forget  it  and  enjoy 
themselves  and  get  back  to  the  old  life.  Frankly,  Storn- 
away,  it  still  makes  you  sick  to  hear  of  the  way  our  prison- 
ers are  treated  and  that  sort  of  thing,  but  you  don't  any 
longer  regard  this  war  as  a  crusade,  do  you?  There's  too 
much  eighteenth-century  diplomacy  about  it,  too  many 
compensations,  too  much  balance  of  power.  It  was  one 
thing  to  send  a  forlorn  hope  to  Belgium,  one  thing  to  say 
that  the  German  military  machine  must  be  broken,  but 
when  it  comes  to  conscribing  men  to  coerce  Greece  or  win 
Constantinople  for  Russia  ...  I  wonder  when  the  accursed 
things  will  end." 

Bertrand  roused  himself  to  light  a  fresh  cigar.  From 
the  angle  at  which  he  held  it  in  his  mouth,  no  less  than 
from  the  way  that  he  screwed  up  his  eyes  and  peered  into 
the  shadows  of  the  rafters,  I  prepared  myself  for  a  para- 
doxical and  probably  pretentious  generalisation. 

"I  sometimes  feel  that  war  is  the  new  expression  of  our 
national  activity,"  he  began.  "Don't  the  Rolls-Royce  peo- 
ple build  only  for  the  Government?  Well,  that's  typical  of 
a  gigantic  state-socialism  which  has  grown  up  in  a  night; 
you  can't  build  a  house  or  buy  a  suit  of  clothes  until  war- 
needs  have  been  satisfied.  Production,  transport,  distribu- 
tion have  all  been  taken  over;  you've  an  army  of  con- 
trollers directing  the  machine;  and  in  time  we  shall  dress 
as  we're  told,  eat  the  quantity  of  food  we're  allowed,  move 


342  SONIA  MARRIED 

here  and  there,  do  this  and  that,  as  we're  ordered.  At 
one  age  we  shall  be  drafted  into  the  army,  at  another  we 
shall  be  knocked  on  the  head  to  save  feeding;  there'll  be 
birth-rate  bonuses  amounting  to  state-subsidised  polygamy. 
.  .  .  Everything  that  a  man  did  in  the  old  days  for  his  own 
benefit  or  amusement, — his  daily  task,  his  career,  his  ma- 
terial output,  his  accumulation  of  wealth,  his  pioneer-work 
in  developing  and  improving  the  world,  his  family-life, 
even — will  now  be  directed  to  feeding  the  war.  I  don't 
complain;  we're  united  in  a  labour  gang  of  forty  million 
souls,  and  our  job  is  to  turn  out  a  better  war  than  Ger- 
many. I  don't  see  where  it's  going  to  stop  and  I  don't 
see  who's  going  to  stop  it.  Not  the  soldiers,  because  they're 
shot  if  they  disobey  an  order ;  not  the  Government,  because 
they're  the  Board  of  Directors/' 

"You'll  only  stop  it  by  a  general  strike  at  home,"  George 
answered  reflectively. 

Bertrand  spread  out  his  hands  with  a  gesture  of  sweet 
reasonableness. 

"And  who's  going  to  carry  through  a  general  strike  ?  The 
people  with  small  fixed  incomes  can't  make  themselves 
heard,  and,  for  all  the  rise  in  prices,  your  industrial  wage- 
earner  has  never  been  so  prosperous;  besides,  whenever 
prices  become  too  high,  the  Government  steps  in  and  con- 
trols them,  subsidises  producers.  Again,  it's  not  pleasant 
to  be  told  that  your  sons  and  brothers  are  being  killed 
because  you  won't  turn  out  shells." 

George  wriggled  his  shoulder-blades  impatiently. 

"But,  if  you  make  it  plain  that  you're  not  going  to  turn 
out  shells,  the  killing  stops  automatically.  If  anyone  would 
only  come  off  the  high  horse  and  discuss  concrete  terms!" 

Bertrand  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  blew  a  scornful 
cloud  of  smoke. 

"But  people  are  getting  used  to  the  killing,"  he  objected. 
"Three  years  ago — take  anyone  you  like,  Jim  Loring;  he 
could  only  die  as  the  result  of  illness  or  an  accident ;  even 
if  there  were  a  war,  he  wasn't  a  soldier.  And  it  came  like 
a  sort  of  icy  grip  at  the  heart.  .  .  .  Nowadays  a  man  be- 


SANCTUARY  343 

comes  a  soldier,  whether  he  likes  it  or  not,  at  eighteen. 
They  get  mown  down  at  twenty  instead  of  dying  in  their 
beds  at  seventy.  And,  as  we  grow  accustomed  to  it,  on  my 
soul !  George,  we  cease  caring.  People  who  come  back  from 
Paris  tell  me  that  there's  a  sort  of  hedonistic  fatalism  there 
— the  restaurants  never  so  full,  money  never  so  prodigally 
squandered.  And  anyone  who  knows  anything  knows  that 
French  credit  in  America  is  gone!  So  it  isn't  the  calm,  un- 
dismayed spirit  of  the  Spartans  at  Thermopylae;  it's  hys- 
teria, carelessness.  I've  little  doubt  that  with  certain  obvious 
differences  you'd  find  the  same  thing  in  Berlin,  assuredly 
you'd  find  it  in  Vienna.  And  we're  getting  it  as  badly." 

It  was  due  to  the  house  in  which  I  lived,  but  I  suddenly 
realised  that  for  a  twelvemonth  my  emotions  and  interests 
had  strayed  from  battlefields  where  thousands  of  men  were 
daily  laying  down  their  lives  for  conflicting  ideals;  they 
were  engrossed  in  the  contemplation  of  a  middle-aged 
bachelor,  taking  advantage  of  a  blind  man  to  carry  off  his 
wife.  And  Mrs.  Tom  Dainton,  one  of  the  earliest  widows 
in  the  war,  had  married  again.  And  Lady  Maitland  and 
her  friends  were  wondering  whether  the  risk  of  sudden 
death  would  nerve  young  Pentyre  to  marry  Lady  Sally 
Farwell. 

"You're  not  very  encouraging,  Bertrand,"  I  said. 

"And  yet,  if  you  take  a  long  view,  you  can  see  light/' 
he  rejoined  unexpectedly.  "The  same  scientific  develop- 
ment which  gives  you  chloroform  gives  you  also  poison 
gas;  and,  until  you  can  disarm  the  world  and  make  one 
nation  of  it  under  a  single  police,  each  war  becomes  more 
horrible  than  the  last.  At  the  same  time  international 
divisions  and  values  may  be  becoming  obsolete ;  the  strong- 
hold of  Gibraltar  may  be  the  target  for  long-range 
Spanish  guns;  we  may  all  of  us  thankfully  throw  down 
our  weapons  before  we  have  to  fight  under  changing  con- 
ditions. You  remember  when  war  broke  out,  George  ?  You 
were  going  to  stay  with  Jim  Loring,  and  I  went  to  Pad- 
dington  with  you;  we  all  shook  our  heads  gravely  and 
said,  'Thank  God!  We're  an  island!'  Well,  insularity 


344  SONIA  MARRIED 

would  have  been  a  source  of  greater  weakness  than  strength, 
if  the  perfection  of  submarine  warfare  had  gone  pari  passu 
with  the  development  of  trench  warfare;  and  we  may 
want  to  cry  'quits'  before  the  submarine  makes  any  further 
progress.  Or  take  aerial  transit.  With  any  luck,  George, 
you'll  live  to  see  mail  and  passenger  services  through  the 
air  all  over  the  world.  Germany  can't  get  to  the  Far  East 
without  the  leave  of  Russia,  she  can  hardly  get  to  America 
without  sending  her  air-ships  over  someone  else's  territory. 
All  these  international  barriers  have  changed  their  values." 

George  looked  at  his  watch  and  dragged  himself  to 
his  feet. 

"I  think  I  shall  turn  in.  A  discussion  of  this  kind  is  very 
purifying  for  the  soul,  no  doubt,  but  it  doesn't  get  you 
any  forrarder.  Dear  old  Raney  could  usually  be  counted 
on  to  produce  some  Mark  Tapley  consolation  at  the  end 
of  the  evening,  but  I  doubt  if  even  he's  got  any  superabun- 
dance at  the  present  time." 

Bertrand  emptied  his  tumbler,  and  we  moved  slowly 
towards  the  door. 

"Have  you  heard  anything  of  him  since  he  went  back?" 
I  asked. 

"He's  written  once  or  twice  on  business.  I  send  him  a 
line  two  or  three  times  a  week  to  say  how  Sonia's  getting1 
on,  and  I'm  going  down  there  for  the  week-end  pretty 
soon.  You  can't  tell  much  from  a  dictated  letter — or  from 
him,  if  it  comes  to  that,"  he  added  with  a  sigh. 

It  must  have  been  two  or  three  days  after  this  night  that 
Lady  Loring  came  to  me  with  a  worried  expression  and  the 
announcement  that  Sonia  would  have  to  keep  her  bed  until 
after  her  confinement;  against  this  sentence  the  doctor  al- 
lowed no  appeal.  Thereafter  I  found  myself  spending  a 
considerable  portion  of  the  day  in  the  sick-room.  Sonia  had 
overcome  her  earlier  antagonism  and  after  her  first  unbur- 
dening of  spirit  was  prepared  to  discuss  herself  and  her 
history  with  a  frankness  that  amazed  me  until  George  told 
me  that  it  was  one  of  her  most  unchanging  characteristics 
and  one  that  was  not  solely  stamped  upon  her  by  a  desire 


SANCTUARY  345 

to  talk  about  herself.  At  the  end  of  a  week  I  had  received 
a  full  and  most  unflattering  account  of  her  girlhood. 

"I  was  frightfully  attractive,  of  course,  but  I  must  have 
been  odious/'  she  began  engagingly.  "Every  other  woman 
hated  me,  and  I  used  to  take  it  as  a  great  compliment, 
but  I  don't  think  I  should  now.  I  want  to  be  liked,  I  always 
did;  but  I  never  took  any  trouble,  I  went  out  of  my  way 
to  exasperate  men.  I  don't  know  why  people  stood  me — 
people  like  George,  I  mean,  who  didn't  pretend  to  be  in 
love  with  me.  I  must  either  have  been  a  first-class  flirt, 
or  I  must  have  been  a  genius,  or  else  I  must  really  have  had 
qualities  that  I  didn't  recognise." 

I  had  a  full  history  of  her  engagement  to  Loring,  over 
whom  her  facile  triumph  had  exasperated  her,  so  that  she 
picked  quarrels  day  by  day  until  the  engagement  was  broken 
off  and  she  made,  if  not  the  match,  at  least  the  most  widely 
discussed  scandal,  of  the  year. 

There  was  another  man  called  Claypole  or  Crabtree  (as 
she  always  alluded  to  him  as  Tony  I  never  entirely  dis- 
covered his  surname)  to  whom  she  had  been  engaged  before 
Loring  came  on  the  scene.  I  had  his  history,  too,  sand- 
wiched between  accounts  of  the  men  whom  she  had  not 
married  for  one  reason  or  another,  and  the  rich  Jews 
like  Sir  Adolphus  Erskine,  whom  she  had  fascinated  and 
bled;  throughout  she  talked  like  an  artless  child  describing 
her  first  ball.  On  some  subjects  she  was  inexorably  reti- 
cent ;  I  never  heard  why  she  had  fallen  in  love  with  O'Rane 
and  married  him,  and  in  all  the  hours  that  I  sat  with  her 
she  never  alluded  a  second  time  to  the  stages  of  her  es- 
trangement from  her  husband.  An  hour  daily  for  a  fort- 
night told  me  little,  perhaps,  about  Sonia,  but  it  shed  a 
searching  light  on  girls  of  the  class  to  which  she  belonged. 


As  the  days  went  by  I  found  myself  allowed  to  spend 
less  and  less  time  with  Sonia.  She  had  hypnotised  herself 
into  believing,  as  a  matter  of  duty  and  necessity,  that  she 


346  SONIA  MARRIED 

was  ill,  tired  and  suffering  at  a  time  when  half  the  amount 
of  persuasion  would  have  made  her  feel  that  she  had  never 
been  more  comfortable  in  her  life.  It  was  hardly  cow- 
ardice, for  George  had  told  me  anecdotes  of  her  endurance 
in  the  hunting-field  which  shewed  that  she  was  capable 
of  supporting  pain;  but  the  obsession  made  her  a  difficult 
patient. 

"Only  three  weeks  more,"  I  used  to  be  told ;  "only  a  fort- 
night more." 

Then  she  began  to  count  in  days,  and  I  saw  her  face 
lengthen  and  her  eyes  dilate,  as  though  the  Wild  Ass's 
Skin  were  shrinking  in  her  hand.  She  was  morbidly  curi- 
ous to  find  out  from  Lady  Loring  how  much  unavoidable 
pain  she  would  have  to  feel;  the  doctor  was  questioned 
again  and  again  until  he  warned  her  that  she  was  preparing 
the  gravest  consequences  for  her  child  and  herself.  And  it 
was  after  he  had  gone  that  she  whispered  a  terrible  prayer 
that  the  baby  might  be  born  dead. 

When  the  conversation  was  reported  to  me,  I  felt  that 
drastic  steps  would  have  to  be  taken,  if  she  was  to  be  kept 
from  going  mad  herself  and  giving  birth  to  an  imbecile. 
I  took  George  into  my  confidence  and  sent  him  for  his  week- 
end at  Melton  with  a  string  of  rhetorical  questions  and  a 
bulletin  which  brought  O'Rane  the  same  night  to  London, 
where  he  stayed  until  Sunday  evening,  while  his  neglected 
guest  billeted  himself  on  the  Headmaster  and  accepted  the 
hospitality  of  the  Common  Room.  I  was  by  myself,  dozing 
over  a  book,  when  the  library  door  was  flung  open,  a  gigan- 
tic Saint  Bernard  ambled  in  and  a  drenched  and  breathless 
figure  demanded  if  anyone  was  there. 

"What  on  earth  brings  you  to  London?"  I  asked. 

"Sonia.  I  gathered  from  George  ...  I  say,  something's 
got  to  be  done,  you  know." 

He  stood  with  his  eyes  open  and  set  on  me,  his  lips 
parted  to  shew  a  gleam  of  white,  and  one  hand  mopping 
his  coat,  more,  I  think,  for  distraction  than  in  any  Jiope  of 
drying  it. 


SANCTUARY  347 

"I  don't  quite  know  what  you  think  you  can  do,"  I  said 
dubiously. 

"If  she's  awake "  he  began  eagerly. 

"You'd  frighten  her  out  of  her  wits,"  I  interrupted. 
"And  you  can  ask  Lady  Loring,  if  you  don't  believe  me. 
What  you  can  do — to-morrow  morning, — is  to  let  it  be 
known  that  you've  come  up — to  lunch  with  a  man  or  collect 
some  books — and,  if  she'd  care  to  see  you,  she  can.  But  I 
think  you've  rather  acted  on  an  impulse,  you  know." 

"I  couldn't  stay  down  at  Melton,  if  there  was  anything 
I  could  do  by  coming  up." 

"I'm  afraid  that  you'll  find  that  there  isn't." 

His  underlip  curled  obstinately. 

"We'll  see.  I  took  a  solemn  vow  that  I'd  see  her 
through  .  .  ." 

I  said  nothing,  remembering  that  he  was  Irish  and  a 
romantic;  his  simple-minded  talk  of  oaths  and  obligations 
belonged  to  another  age  and  another  land. 

In  the  morning  I  asked  Lady  Loring  whether  it  would 
be  prudent  to  let  O'Rane  see  his  wife.  I  was  referred  to 
Sonia  herself,  who  received  the  news  of  her  husband's 
presence  without  visible  surprise  and  hesitated  for  what 
seemed  five  minutes  before  answering.  Then  she  picked 
up  a  hand-glass  from  the  table  by  her  bedside,  looked  long 
at  her  reflection  and  laid  it  down  with  a  sigh ;  there  was  a 
second  spell  of  indecision  before  she  told  me  she  was  not 
well  enough  to  see  anyone. 

"I  think  she's  gratified  by  your  coming,"  I  told  O'Rane, 
"but  she'd  rather  not  have  any  visitors  at  present.  It's  not 
hostility  to  you,  but  a  woman  loses  her  looks  to  some  extent 
at  a  time  like  this,  and  I  think  she's  sensitive  about  it." 

"But  she  knows "  He  interrupted  himself  suddenly, 

and  his  voice  became  softly  wistful.  "D'you  appreciate  that 
I've  never  seen  my  wife  since  she  was  my  wife !" 

"I  don't  think  she  always  does,"  I  answered.  "But  the 
trouble  in  her  mind  won't  be  removed  by  your  sitting  and 
talking  to  her  sweetly  for  half  an  hour,  when  she  doesn't 
want  to  see  you." 


348  SONIA  MARRIED 

O'Rane's  normal  composure  was  breaking  down,  but  he 
recovered  himself  with  an  effort. 

"I  might  have  been  a  rather  more  civil  host  to  George, 
at  this  rate,"  he  murmured. 

At  dinner  that  night  we  talked  of  a  subject  which  illness 
and  other  work  had  driven  into  the  background.  The  war 
had  shattered  many  of  my  fine  boasts  of  what  I  would  do, 
if  I  were  a  millionaire,  and  new  outlets  had  to  be  found 
for  the  Lancing  fortune.  I  had  already  decided  that  Ripley 
Court  could  be  put  to  no  better  use  than  as  a  richly  en- 
dowed haven  of  rest  for  those  whom  the  war  had  made 
incapable  of  ever  helping  themselves  again.  There  were 
men,  I  knew,  concealed  mercifully  for  themselves  and  the 
world  from  inquisitive  or  pitying  spectators,  who  had 
marched  into  battle  and  returned  from  the  operating-theatre 
blind  and  without  limbs,  mere  trunks  surmounted  by  sight- 
less heads,  yet — I  was  told — glad  to  be  spared  even  such 
life  as  remained  to  them.  They  were  to  be  my  first  care, 
and,  when  the  last  had  died,  there  would  still  be  sufficient 
incurable  cripples  without  the  adventitious  aid  of  modern 
warfare  to  keep  my  hospital  full.  There  was  opportunity, 
too,  for  bringing  comfort  and  resignation  to  the  demented, 
the  paralysed  and  the  blind.  As  I  saw  O'Rane's  interest 
quickening,  I  told  him  that  I  wanted  him  to  be  one  of  my 
trustees. 

He  hesitated  until  I  feared  that  he  was  going  to  refuse. 

"One  of  them  ?"  he  asked  in  doubt. 

"I  shall  appoint  several,  but  they  must  be  all  young  men ; 
I  want  the  best  of  their  lives." 

"If  I  act,"  he  answered  slowly,  "I  should  have  to  act 
alone.  I'm  in  the  early  thirties  still " 

"You  would  find  it  more  than  one  man's  work." 

"Ah,  but  I  could  give  the  whole  of  my  life  to  it."  I 
started  to  interrupt,  but  he  raised  his  hand.  "And,  fur- 
thermore, I  should  allow  you  to  impose  no  conditions;  the 
money  would  have  to  come  to  me  as  it  came  to  you,  and 
you  would  have  to  let  me  play  ducks  and  drakes  with  it 
as  I  liked "  He  paused  to  laugh  wistfully.  "You've  had 


SANCTUARY  349 

admirable  opportunities  of  observing  how  satisfactorily  I 
arrange  my  own  affairs;  but  I  couldn't  undertake  the  re- 
sponsibility otherwise.  You  see,  you  might  try  to  impose 
conditions  that  I  didn't  like;  and  then  my  heart  wouldn't 
be  in  the  work.  Or  your  conditions  might  become  obsolete 
with  the  changing  state  of  society,  as  has  happened  with 
every  trust  that  has  been  in  existence  for  more  than  a 
hundred  years.  But,  above  all,  you  know  that,  if  you 
want  to  help  your  fellow-creatures,  you  must  do  it  at  dis- 
cretion and  not  by  looking  at  a  deed  to  see  if  you're  allowed 
to.  Do  you  know  the  story  of  Bertrand's  fifty-pound  note  ?" 

"I  don't  think  so." 

O'Rane's  eyes  lit  up  with  laughter. 

"Get  him  to  tell  you  the  full  saga;  I  can  only  give  you 
a  synopsis.  Years  and  years  ago  some  man  asked  for  a 
loan  of  five  hundred  pounds,  and  Bertrand,  to  cut  the  inter- 
view short,  said  he'd  present  him  with  fifty.  The  man  said 
he  didn't  want  it  as  a  gift,  wouldn't  take  it  as  a  gift. 

"Well,  please  yourself/  said  Bertrand;  'you  ca^  it  a 
loan,  and  I'll  call  it  a  bad  debt ;  but  I'm  very  busy,  and  you 
won't  get  any  more.  Good  morning/ 

"The  man  talked  a  good  deal  about  impending  ruin, 
hinted  at  suicide  and  told  Bertrand  that  he  would  be  re- 
sponsible for  turning  an  honest  woman  on  the  streets. 
Bertrand  went  on  with  his  writing,  and  eventually  the  fel- 
low pocketed  the  note  and  got  up. 

"  'I  hope  to  pay  this  back  within  three  months/  he  said 
stiffly.  'It's  not  what  I  expected,  but  I  can't  afford  to 
refuse  it/ 

"  'Don't  pay  it  back  to  me/  said  Bertrand,  who  was  be- 
ginning to  feel  rather  ashamed  of  himself.  'Hand  it  on  to 
someone  else  who's  in  a  tight  corner,  and,  when  he's  ready 
to  pay  it  back,  he  can  lend  it  to  his  next  friend  in  distress/ 
Then  a  little  bit  of  the  old  Adam  peeped  out,  and  he  added, 
'Remember  it's  a  loan;  you  must  tell  the  next  man  so  and 
you've  no  idea  how  many  men  and  women  we  shall  save 
from  ruin  and  suicide.' 

"Well,  Bertrand  never  expected  to  hear  another  word, 


350  SONIA  MARRIED 

but  a  year  or  two  later,  he  received  a  letter  of  thanks  from 
a  young  barrister,  whose  wife  had  had  to  undergo  an  opera- 
tion ;  then  from  a  doctor  in  Sunderland  who  hadn't  known 
how  to  pay  his  rent ;  then  from  a  girl  who'd  lost  her  father 
and  wanted  money  to  pay  for  learning  shorthand  and  typ- 
ing. The  fifty  pounds  have  been  in  circulation  for  about 
eighteen  years,  and  from  time  to  time  Bertrand  still  gets 
a  letter  from  some  out-of-the-way  corner  of  the  world.  .  .  . 
Of  course,  I'm  living  on  charity  now,  but,  when  I  was 
competing  equally  with  my  fellows,  an  odd  fifty  pounds 
might  have  come  in  very  handy.  That's  what  I  mean  by 
helping  people  at  discretion/' 

"There's  a  difference  between  fifty-pounds  and  twenty- 
five  million,"  I  pointed  out. 

O'Rane  smiled  to  himself  and  then  shook  his  head. 

"Not  so  much  as  you  might  think,"  he  said. 

"I  wonder  how  you'd  use  it." 

His  face  became  slowly  fixed  and  grim. 

"I  wouldn't  let  any  boy  go  through  what  I've  had  to 
face,"  he  murmured.  "It  may  be  fortifying  for  the  char- 
acter, but  that  sort  of  thing  can  be  overdone.  The  Spartan 
youth  who  allowed  a  fox  to  gnaw  his  vitals  ended  up,  I  have 
no  doubt,  with  an  immensely  fortified  character  but  also 
with  a  grievously  impaired  set  of  vitals.  You  know,  a 
boy  without  parents " 

He  broke  off  and  began  to  whistle  to  himself;  then  re- 
marked unexpectedly: 

"I  wonder  whether  this  will  be  a  boy.  .  .  .  But,  boy  or 
girl,  it  must  be  an  awful  thing  to  lie  waiting  for  the  birth 
of  a  child  that  you  hate  in  advance,  that's  got  to  be  hid- 
den  " 

He  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and  sat  without  speaking. 

"Is  that  what's  happening  ?"  I  asked,  for  Sonia  had  never 
consulted  me  even  in  her  most  expansive  moments. 

He  nodded  abruptly. 

"She  doesn't  want  anyone  to  know  that  she's  ill  or  why 
she's  ill ;  no  one  else  does,  and  we  trust  all  of  you.  As  soon 
as  the  child's  born,  it's  going  to  be  smuggled  away.  .  .  .  It 


SANCTUARY  351 

will  be  properly  looked  after,  of  course,  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing,  but  it  will  never  be  allowed  to  know  its  own 
parents.  All  the  arrangements  have  been  made,  and  I 
gather  that  the  doctor  has  been — most  sympathetic  and 
helpful."  He  smiled  with  scornful  bitterness  and  sat  for  a 
minute  without  speaking.  "I  was  surprised  to  find  a  woman 
like  Violet  touching  the  suggestion  with  the  end  of  a  pole ; 
she  was  a  bit  surprised,  too,  I  fancy,  because  she  sort  of 
excused  herself  and  hoped  Sonia  would  relent  later  on,  but 
it  was  absolutely  necessary  to  humour  her  in  every  way  at 
present.  .  .  .  That  kind  of  thing  always  sticks  in  the 
throat  of  a  man — like  a  woman  who  refuses  to  have  a 
family  at  all.  .  .  .1  don't  know,  I  suppose  I'm  super- 
stitious; I  should  feel  that,  if  I  brought  a  child  into  the 
world  like  that — furtively,  shamefacedly,  wrapping  a  blanket 
round  it  and  carrying  it  out  of  the  back  door  in  the  dead 
of  night  .  .  .  Wouldn't  you,  too,  Stornaway?  Wouldn't 
you  feel  that  you  were  putting  a  curse  on  the  poor  little 
brute?  And  I  can't  imagine  a  woman  deliberately  doing 
that  to  another  woman's  child — let  alone  her  own.  Picture 
the  child — later  on — growing  up.  ...  Even  if  it  never 
knows  the  manner  of  its  birth,  wouldn't  you  rather  expect 
it  to  learn  stealing  in  a  Dickensian  slum  and  to  end  up  on 
the  scaffold?  I  suppose  it's  all  very  fanciful  and  morbid. 
.  .  .  But  the  other  seems  so  infernally  unnatural.  I  thought 
it  wasn't  done.  I  thought  a  mother  would  no  more  treat  her 
own  baby  like  that,  whatever  the  provocation,  than  a  man 
would  hit  a  woman  in  the  breast/' 

At  O'Rane's  age  I  might  have  thought  the  same  thing. 

"Doesn't  anybody  else  know?"  I  asked. 

"George  may  have  told  the  Daintons;  /  didn't,"  he  an- 
swered, smoothing  the  wrinkles  out  of  his  forehead.  "We 
shall  all  have  to  rack  our  brains  before  the  time  comes,  God 
knows.  Violet  says  I  must  make  a  point  of  being  in  the 
house  in  case  anything  happens.  If  Sonia — dies,  I  mean,  it 
would  look  funny  my  not  being  with  her." 

"And  if  other  people  have  to  be  told?" 


352  SONIA  MARRIED 

O'Rane's  nose  came  down  on  his  upper  lip  in  a  wither- 
ing sneer. 

"I  suppose  it  means  one  or  two  trusty  and  competent 
nurses,  and  the  child  will  be  kept  in  another  part  of  the 
house.  And,  later  on,  London  air  won't  suit  it,  and  it  will 
be  sent  with  a  governess  to  the  sea,  educated  abroad.  .  .  . 
My  God !  7  was  educated  abroad !"  He  coughed  apologeti- 
cally and  relieved  his  feelings  by  pacing  up  and  down  in 
front  of  the  fire.  "Where  had  we  got  to?"  he  asked  ab- 
sently. "Oh,  yes!  Well,  a  boy  like  that — I  assume  for 
some  reason  it's  going  to  be  a  boy — might  owe  the  whole 
of  his  career,  his  life,  his  happiness  and  power  of  doing 
good  entirely  to  a  chance  meeting  with  some  man  who 
chose  to  pay  three  hundred  a  year  on  his  account  for  so 
many  years.  But  it's  the  personal  touch,  the  personal  re- 
lationship that  must  be  established !"  He  swung  round  in  his 
walk  and  faced  me.  "All  my  life  I've  wanted  to  be  Prince 
Florizel !"  he  cried.  "I  wanted  to  be  able  to  lend  a  hand  to 
distressed  young  Americans  who  found  unexpected  dead 
bodies  in  their  Saratoga  trunks,  I  wanted  to  find  comfort- 
able and  remunerative  positions  at  my  court  for  the  con- 
science-stricken survivors  of  the  Suicide  Club.  But  with 
the  untrammelled  disposal  of  your  estate " 

"Wouldn't  it  pall,  if  you  didn't  have  to  make  the  money 
before  you  gave  it  away?"  I  asked. 

"I  don't  think  my  interest  in  human  beings  would  ever 
pall,"  he  answered.  ''There's  such  a  devil  of  a  lot  of  them, 
and  they're  all  different.  When  I  got  into  the  House,  I 
stood  as  a  Tory,  and  George  was  rather  offended,  be- 
cause he  said  I  was  the  most  revolutionary  nihilist  he'd 
ever  met.  I  could  never  call  myself  a  democrat,  though,  be- 
cause democrats  deal  in  mobs,  and  I  only  see  a  mob  as 
composed  of  individuals,  all  different,  all  absorbingly  in- 
teresting— with  bodies  to  be  kicked  and  souls  to  be  damned, 
if  your  preference  lies  that  way.  I  can't  deal  with  people 
as  types.  I  can't  classify  them ;  each  one  is  much  too  real, 
too  personal.  And,  if  you're  like  that,  you  end  up  as  a 
nihilist,  because  all  government  is  based  on  generalisations, 


SANCTUARY  353 

mostly  inaccurate  and  wholly  inadequate.  As  we're  find- 
ing out."  He  put  his  watch  to  his  ear  and  listened.  "I 
must  be  making  my  way  to  the  station,"  he  said.  "I'm 
not  taking  an  active  party  line  at  present,  but  I  seem  to 
find  a  growing  sense  that  the  old  governing  classes  haven't 
measured  up,  haven't  made  good  in  their  own  job.  We've 
had  three  specimens  since  the  war  started.  ...  I  always 
feel  that  in  universal  nihilism  I  should  come  to  my  own. 
Now  I  must  fly !  Forgive  me  for  talking  so  much !" 


George  returned  to  London  the  following  day  in  a  bet- 
ter temper  than,  I  fear,  would  have  been  mine,  if  I  had 
been  invited  to  the  country  and  abandoned  by  my  host 
within  an  hour  of  my  arrival.  Melton  week-end  parties 
have  long  been  famous,  for  Dr.  Burgess  has  had  through 
his  hands  perhaps  a  fifth  of  the  younger  statesmen  and  bar- 
risters, authors,  clergymen  and  soldiers  of  the  day.  Any 
old  Meltonian  can  claim  a  bed,  and  it  will  be  found  for 
him  in  his  old  house,  at  the  Raven  or  in  lodgings ;  he  dines 
on  Saturday  night  in  Common  Room  as  a  matter  of  course 
and  lunches  with  Burgess  next  day  as  a  matter  of  right. 
Strangers  from  less  fortunate  foundations  are  jealously 
excluded,  but  I  attended  one  dinner  as  a  Governor  and 
found  a  Law  Officer  on  my  right,  a  silk  from  the  Commer- 
cial Court  on  my  left  and  a  twice-wounded  Brigadier  op- 
posite me.  The  food  was  tolerable,  the  wine  good;  the 
conversation  indiscreetly  well-informed.  George  told  me 
that,  when  he  was  in  the  House,  he  could  only  find  out  what 
was  going  on  by  spending  a  week-end  at  his  old  school. 

"I  had  one  bad  moment  on  Sunday  afternoon,"  he  con- 
fessed, when  I  asked  for  news  of  O'Rane.  "We'd  all  been 
lunching  with  the  old  man,  and  he  asked  me  to  stay  be- 
hind. It  was  rather  reminiscent  of  certain  regrettable  meet- 
ings in  my  extreme  youth.  ...  I  knew  what  he  was  going 
to  talk  about  and  I  knew  it  would  be  no  good  for  me  to 
beat  about  the  bush.  The  door  had  hardly  closed  before 


354  SONIA  MARRIED 

he  put  it  to  me  what  was  the  matter  with  Raney.  I  had 
to  tell  him  everything,  you  can't  hide  things  from  Burgess. 
For  that  reason  I  wasn't  sorry  that  Raney  had  bolted  here ; 
he'd  never  forgive  me,  if  he  guessed  I'd  given  him  away." 

"But  it  won't  make  any  difference,  will  it  ?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  Burgess  has  got  too  much  of  God's  commonsense. 
But  Raney  can't  stand  being  pitied.  Burgess  will  only 
allude  to  it,  if  he  convinces  himself  that  it  will  do  some 
good.  I'm  afraid  I  don't  see  how  it  can ;  poor  old  Raney's 
just  got  to  set  his  teeth  once  more  and  go  through  it  single- 
handed.  ..." 

A  week  later  Bertrand,  George  and  I  were  gossiping  over 
a  last  cigar,  when  Lady  Loring  entered  with  a  grave  face. 
The  doctor  had  that  moment  left  after  his  evening  visit 
to  Sonia. 

"I  think  it's  time  we  sent  for  David,"  she  said  without 
preamble. 

"You're  certain?"  I  asked.    "He's  in  the  middle  of  term." 

"If  we're  keeping  to  our  plan,"  she  answered  unenthusi- 
astically. "Any  moment  now " 

Bertrand  stumped  across  the  library  to  a  writing-table. 

"I'll  send  him  a  wire,"  he  said.  "Time  enough  for  ap- 
pearances, if  he  turns  up  in  the  course  of  to-morrow.  How 
is  she?" 

Lady  Loring  shrugged  her  shoulders  carelessly  and  then 
turned  quickly  away. 

"She's  all  right — physically,"  she  answered.  "But  if  you 
left  a  bottle  of  prussic  acid  within  reach  .  .  .  That's  what 
frightens  me  so  much.  Until  to-night  she  was  so  keen  to 
go  on  living  that  she  could  face  almost  anything,  but  to- 
night I  believe  she  doesn't  care  about  it  any  more.  She 
wants  to  slip  away  and  end  everything,  get  rid  of  all  her 
difficulties.  ." 


O'Rane  arrived  at  "The  Sanctuary"  next  day  half  an 
hour  after  I  had  finished  luncheon.  This  time  his  wife 
consented  to  see  him,  but  only  after  some  hesitation. 


SANCTUARY  355 

"You  mustn't  go  away!"  she  whispered  to  me.  "If  you 
— if  you  see  I'm  getting  tired,  you  know  .  .  ." 

O'Rane  came  into  her  room  with  a  smile,  kissed  her  hand 
and  then  felt  for  a  chair,  where  he  sat  in  silence  for  per- 
haps three  minutes  until  Lady  Loring  entered  to  say  that 
it  was  time  for  her  patient  to  rest. 

"I  never  asked  how  you  were  feeling,"  he  said,  as  he  got 
up  to  go. 

"I'm  all  right — at  present,"  Sonia  answered.  Then  a 
shiver  ran  through  her,  communicating  itself  to  her  fingers 
until  I  saw  his  hand  tighten  over  them. 

"It's  going  to  be  all  right,  Sonia,"  O'Rane  whispered. 

She  lowered  her  eyes  and  stared  dully  across  the  room. 

"It  can't  be  all  right." 

"I'll  make  it  all  right." 

The  corners  of  her  mouth  began  to  droop  miserably. 

"Of  course,  if  I  die  ..."  she  began  with  a  catch  in  her 
breath. 

O'Rane  dropped  on  to  one  knee  and  drew  her  two  hands 
into  his  own. 

"It's  much  more  fun  living,  sweetheart!"  he  whispered. 
"And  you're  going  to  live,  you're  going  to  make  whatever 
you  like  of  your  life.  If  you  want  me,  I  shall  always  be 
at  hand,  as  I  am  now;  and,  if  you  don't  want  me,  I  shall 
keep  away.  I  owe  you  so  much,  my  darling;  you  must 
give  me  the  chance  of  paying  you  back  a  little  bit.  When 
we  married,  I  didn't  give  either  of  us  a  fair  trial,  I  forgot 
the  life  you  were  accustomed  to,  I  forgot  that  my  own  life 
wasn't  like  everyone  else's ;  I  just  went  ahead,  doing  every- 
thing that  came  natural  to  me,  and  it  never  occurred  to  me 
that  I  was  making  you  unhappy.  Forgive  me,  Sonia!" 

She  dragged  one  hand  away  and  covered  her  eyes. 

"I  don't  know  that  I've  got  much  to  forgive,"  she  mur- 
mured, and  I  could  see  her  lips  curving  to  a  wistful  smile. 

"I  shouldn't  have  asked  you,  it  I  didn't  need  it.  Sonia, 
you're  going  to  be  brave,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Promise?" 


356  SONIA  MARRIED 

The  lines  of  her  throat  tightened. 

"You  know  what  my  promises  are  worth,  David." 

"If  you  promise,  I  know  you'll  keep  it.  And  then  I 
shall  want  another  promise — two  more,  in  fact.  I  want 
you  to  promise  not  to-  worry,  and  you  must  promise  not  to 
feel  any  pain.  Will  you  do  that,  sweetheart?  I've  come 
up  all  the  way  from  Melton,  you  know." 

She  withdrew  her  hand,  and  I  saw  that  her  face  had  be- 
come suddenly  pale  and  that  her  eyes  were  tightly  closed. 

"I  can't  promise  that,  David." 

His  voice  caressed  her,  as  though  he  were  talking  to  a 
child. 

"I  think  you  can,  darling.  Do  you  remember  when  you 
sprained  your  ankle,  skating  at  Crowley  Court,  and  you 
started  to  cry  with  the  pain  and  I  said  I  wouldn't  carry  you 
back  to  the  house  until  you'd  promised  to  stop  crying  and 
not  to  let  the  ankle  hurt  any  more  ?  You  promised  quickly 
enough  then,  and  it's  much  more  important  now.  If  you'll 
promise  that  now,  I'll  do  anything  you  like." 

She  smiled  wistfully  a  second  time,  then  drew  his  head 
down  to  her  own  and  whispered  something.  I  heard  him 
say,  "You  won't.  I  swear  you  won't,  Sonia."  Then  he 
drew  himself  upright,  waved  his  hand  and  walked  to  the 
door. 

I  sat  with  him  in  the  library,  while  he  attacked  a  belated 
luncheon  and  plied  me  with  questions  about  his  wife.  Her 
whispered  request,  he  told  me,  was  that  she  might,  if  pos- 
sible, be  kept  from  seeing  the  child  when  it  was  born,  and 
on  this  he  hung  a  string  of  questions  to  find  out  what  steps 
we  had  taken  to  secure  the  best  doctors  and  nurses,  when 
the  birth  was  expected,  whether  anyone  else  knew. 

"We've  told  no  one,"  I  assured  him,  "since  you  asked 
us  not  to." 

"I  told  Burgess,"  he  said.  There  was  a  long  silence.  "I 
— told  him  everything.  ...  I  mean,  one  does  with  Bur- 
gess. I  found  it  wasn't  news  to  him.  George  had  told  him 
— weeks  ago.  .  .  .  One  does  with  Burgess,"  he  repeated, 
smiling. 


SANCTUARY  357 

"What  did  he  say?"  I  asked. 

"He  was  rather  helpful." 

"George  told  me  that  he  wouldn't  trouble  to  talk  to 
you  about  it  unless  he  saw  his  way  to  help  you,"  I  said. 

O'Rane  finished  his  meal  and  lay  back  in  his  chair. 

"I  went  in  and  told  him  that  I  wanted  a  day  or  two's 
leave,  if  he  could  possibly  spare  me ;  I  told  him  Sonia  was 
going  to  have  a  child.  .  .  .  He  waited  for  some  time  and 
then  said,  'The  truth,  the  whole  truth  and  nothing  but  the 
truth?'  Said  it  as  if  he  meant  it,  too;  it  was  like  trying 
to  get  extra  leave  in  the  old  days;  as  a  rule  he'd  accept 
any  excuse,  however  bad,  provided  it  was  given  in  good 
faith;  I  once  got  an  extra  half  for  the  whole  school 
because  it  was  so  hot  that,  as  I  told  him,  we'd  much 
prefer  not  to  be  working.  .  .  .  Well,  I  told  him  the 
whole  truth — all  about  Sonia  and  myself,  all  about  Grayle, 
.  .  ."  He  paused  as  though  breathing  hurt  him,  then 
smiled  wearily. 

"It  may  have  been  good  for  my  humility  of  spirit,  but  I 
can't  say  it  was  very  edifying  for  Burgess.  ...  I  told  him 
that  Sonia's  been  dancing  in  the  shadow  of  a  volcano,  that 
we  were  always  on  the  verge  of  an  appalling  scandal  and 
that  it  was  more  by  luck  than  anything  else  that  it  had 
been  averted.  I  described  to  him  how  we'd  smuggled  her 
home  and  what  we  were  going  to  do  to  keep  the  child  away 
from  her.  .  .  .  Have  you  ever  told  a  long  story  and  dis- 
covered at  some  point  that  it's  falling  extraordinarily  flat 
or  that  someone's  shocked?  Burgess  never  said  anything, 
and  of  course  I  couldn't  see  his  face,  but — I  don't  know 
whether  you  understand  me — the  silence  seemed  to  become 
more  intense  at  times.  I  felt  that  his  eyes  must  be  on  me 
and  I — not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  on  it — I  began  to  feel 
rather  frightened.  .  .  .  If  I  could  have  seen.  ...  I  knew 
from  his  voice  when  he  first  spoke  that  he  was  sitting  down ; 
and  I  suddenly  remembered  a  most  awful  row  I'd  had  with 
him  when  I  was  about  sixteen.  He  sat  there  then  with  his 
back  to  the  window,  and  I  stood  in  front  of  him  arguing 
and  arguing;  it  was  a  little  matter  of  discipline,  and  he'd 


358  SONIA  MARRIED 

decided  to  fire  me  out.  .  .  .  Well,  I  went  through  just  the 
same  thing  this  morning.  I — I  felt  I  was  owning  up ;  and 
I'd  have  given  anything  in  the  world  to  see  his  face.  .  .  . 
You  know  how  you  spin  out  the  explanation  .  .  .  and 
rather  overdo  it  ...  you're  too  plausible  and  you  feel  the 
whole  time  that  you're  not  getting  it  across.  ...  I  went 
on  and  on  ...  and  finally  I  stopped  short ;  it  wasn't  any 
use,  he  knew  everything — even  if  George  hadn't  told  him. 
...  I  became  stiff  and  dignified  and  said  once  more,  'If 
you  can  shift  the  work  round  so  that  I  can  be  away  for  a 

day  or  two '  Then  I  heard  him  scraping  for  a  light — 

and  sighing — and  throwing  the  matches  away.  .  .  .  God! 
until  you're  blind,  you've  no  conception  how  many  things 
you  hear.  You  wouldn't  notice  the  sound  of  a  wooden 
match  falling  in  the  grate,  but  7  did;  and,  though  I've 
given  up  smoking  because  I  can't  taste  tobacco,  I  felt  a 
little  smarting  at  the  back  of  my  nostrils  as  Burgess  got 
going  with  his  pipe.  ..." 

If  ever  a  man  talked  to  gain  time,  it  was  O'Rane  at 
that  moment. 

"What  advice  did  he  give  you  ?"  I  asked  him  at  length. 

"He  didn't  give  me  any — advice.  But,  when  I'd  finished, 
he  said  he'd  pull  the  time-table  about  and  that  I  could  stay 
away  as  long  as  I  liked.  I  knew  he'd  say  that.  Well,  in 
the  ordinary  course  I  should  have  said  'Thank  you'  and 
cleared  out,  but  I  didn't  find  it  easy  to  move.  Burgess  sat 
there,  sucking  at  his  pipe ;  I  stood  there — and  I  felt  a  per- 
fect fool,  because  I  was  beginning  to  blush.  And  the  old 
man  said,  'Well,  David  O'Rane?'  and  I  said,  'Well,  sir?' 
And  then  there  was  another  silence.  And  then  he  said, 
'Thou  hast  no  further  need  of  me' — You  know  the  way  he 
talks  ?  I  did  thank  him  then  and  was  starting  to  the  door, 
when  he  called  out,  'Thou  art  at  peace  in  thine  own  mind?' 
That  rather  stung  me,  and  I  told  him  that,  all  things  con- 
sidered, I  didn't  think  I  was  wholly  to  blame ;  and  he  an- 
swered rather  enigmatically  that,  if  I  wasn't  careful,  I 
should  be.  I  asked  him  what  he  meant." 

O'Rane  left  his  chair  and  took  up  a  familiar  position  at 


SANCTUARY  359 

the  fire-place,  resting  his  arm  on  the  high  chimney-piece  and 
leaning  his  head  on  the  back  of  his  hand. 

"Burgess  is  a  curious  man,"  he  resumed  dispassionately. 
"I  don't  think  he  ever  had  any  children  of  his  own,  but  he's 
got — well,  an  extraordinarily  human  imagination.  He  be- 
gan talking  about  this  poor  kiddie — who  isn't  born  yet — 
and  pointing  the  contrast  between  his  life  and  the  life  of 
any  other  boy,  who'd  have  a  father  and  a  mother  fussing 
round  him,  whenever  he  had  a  bit  of  wind  in  his  poor 
little  tummy,  and  playing  with  him  and  watching  him,  as 
he  began  to  crawl  and  talk,  and  trying  to  make  him  under- 
stand that  it  wasn't  the  end  of  the  world  when  he  was 
miserable  trying  to  cut  teeth.  .  .  .  The  old  man  didn't 
spare  me,"  said  O'Rane  with  a  quivering  laugh.  "I  had 
about  twenty  years  of  the  boy's  life  compressed  into  twenty 
minutes;  the  way  he'd  go  to  school,  frightfully  shy  and 
with  no  one  to  see  him  through,  no  one  to  give  him  half  a 
sovereign  at  mid-term;  and  the  way  he'd  get  a  remove  or 
find  himself  in  the  eleven — with  nobody  to  brag  about  it 
to;  and  the  way  he'd  go  on  to  a  public  school  and  work 
his  way  through  the  green-sickness  period  of  dirty  stories 
and  foul  language — without  anyone  to  tell  him  that  he 
was  becoming  rather  a  pitiable  little  object.  .  .  .  And  the 
portentous  age,  when  he'd  be  head  of  his  house,  and  the 
days  when  he'd  want  to  ask  his  father  what  Oxford  used  to 
be  like  in  the  prehistoric  days.  .  .  .  After  twenty  minutes 
or  so  I  told  Burgess  that  I  didn't  see  it  was  my  look-out." 

"Well?"  I  said,  as  O'Rane  hesitated. 

"I  think  it  was  damned  unfair,"  he  burst  out,  but  the 
resentment  in  his  tone  was  unconvincing.  "Burgess  was  a 
friend  of  my  father,  he  knows  all  about  me,  I've  told  him 
every  last  thing  about  myself.  ...  I  don't  suppose  even 
George  knows,  but  the  old  man  used  to  invite  me  to  help 
tidy  up  his  library,  if  I  wasn't  taking  Leave-Out,  and  of 
course  I  was  as  happy  as  a  clam ;  and  we  used  to  talk,  and 
I  told  him  things  that  kept  me  awake  half  the  night, — but 
he  always  seemed  to  have  forgotten  them  next  day.  Well, 


360  SONIA  MARRIED 

I  suppose  after  my  father  died  I  did  have  rather  a — 
crowded  youth ;  and  Burgess  asked  me  if  I  wanted  to  send 
my  son  through  the  same  mill. 

"He's  not  my  son,"  I  said. 

''Thy  wife's  son,  laddie,"  he  answered. 

O'Rane  turned  wearily  from  the  fire  and  began  to  pace 
up  and  down  the  room. 

"I  told  him!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  said  that,  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  that,  Sonia  and  I  could  have  forgotten  everything 
and  come  together  again.  You  remember?  I  was  ready — 
ah,  dear  God  in  Heaven !  I  was  ready !  And  then  I  heard 
that  this  had  come  between  us,  that  there  was  going  to  be 
a  permanent  reminder,  a  permanent  barrier,  a  permanent 
alien  something  in  our  lives.  That  was  the  first  time  I 
saw  you  were  right,  the  first  time  I  appreciated  we  could 
never  forget  and  go  on  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  My 
love  for  Sonia  hasn't  changed.  If — if  anything  happened 
to  the  child  .  .  .  But  as  long  as  it's  there!  I  told  Bur- 
gess that,  though  I  agreed  with  him  in  principle,  I  was 
very  sorry,  but  I  couldn't  help  it.  It  was  Grayle's  busi- 
ness. He  asked  me  if  I  thought  Grayle  was  likely  to  accept 
his  responsibilities;  I  told  him  I  saw  no  indication  of  it. 
He  said  nothing  to  that,  and  I  made  another  bolt  for  the 
door.  He  called  me  back  and  asked  what  I  proposed  to  do. 
I  said  I'd  told  him  already. 

"He  didn't  stop  me,  and  I  got  back  to  my  rooms  in  the 
Cloisters.  I  began  to  pack  a  few  things,  but  the  whole 
time  I  was  feeling  that  I  hadn't  explained  properly  and 
that  Burgess  rather  despised  me.  I  got  extraordinarily  ex- 
cited and  angry  over  it,  until  at  last  I  left  the  packing  alone 
and  went  back  to  his  house  to  justify  myself.  The  man 
shewed  me  at  once  into  the  library,  and  it  was  only  when 
I  got  inside  that  I  realised  that  all  this  time  Burgess  ought 
to  have  been  taking  the  Sixth  for  Tacitus.  Instead  he  was 
still  in  his  chair,  still  sucking  at  his  pipe.  I  fired  away,  full 
of  indignation,  and  went  through  the  whole  weary  busi- 
ness from  the  beginning,  just  as  I'd  done  before.  He  never 
interrupted  me,  never  said  a  word  till  I'd  finished.  Then 


SANCTUARY  361 

he  told  me  pretty  bluntly  that  he  was  only  indirectly  inter- 
ested in  me  and  that  what  he  wanted  to  find  out  was  why 
the  child  should  be  penalised,  why  I,  who  knew  something 
of  what  it  would  have  to  go  through,  persisted  in  making  it 
face  the  music  for  no  fault  of  its  own.  I  was  pretty  well 
worked  up,  but  I  tried  to  be  reasonable  and  asked  him  what 
he  suggested  I  should  do.  He  never  hesitated  a  moment 
this  time!  He  told  me  it  was  my  duty  to  treat  the  child 
as  if  he  were  my  own  son,  never  to  let  him  or  anyone  else 
know  what  had  happened  before  he  was  born,  but  to  de- 
vote myself  to  him  as  if  he  were — well,  not  my  own  son,  not 
someone  for  whom  I  was  naturally  responsible,  but  some- 
one who'd  been  entrusted  to  my  care.  He  said,  if  I  didn't 
— with  the  experience  I'd  got  to  back  me  .  .  .  Somehow, 
the  way  he  put  it,  Stornaway  .  .  ." 

He  brought  his  walk  to  a  conclusion  as  abruptly  as  the 
sentence  and  dropped  heavily  on  to  a  sofa,  as  though  glad 
that  a  necessary  task  was  finished,  yet  awaiting  criticism 
from  me  and  obviously  prepared  to  argue  as  vehemently 
against  me  on  one  side  as  he  had  argued  against  Burgess 
on  the  other. 

"In  practice,  what  do  you  propose  to  do  ?"  I  asked. 

"I've  been  trying  to  think  the  whole  way  up  from  Mel- 
ton. I  suppose  we  shall  have  to  behave  as  though  the  whole 
world  knew  Sonia  was  going  to  have  a  baby,  it  will  have 
to  be  our  child.  And  I  suppose  we  shall  live  like  other 
people  who  are  kept  from  divorcing  each  other  because  of 
their  children.  Nominally  we  shall  share  the  same  house, 
and  I  suppose  things  can  be  arranged  so  as  to  spare  Sonia. 
.  .  .  But  Burgess  has  convinced  me.  We've  no  right  to 
think  of  ourselves  or  wash  our  hands  of  responsibility  or 
try  to  score  off  other  people  at  the  expense  of  the  child. 
I've  promised  her  that  she  shall  never  see  it.  .  .  .1  don't 
know,  I  suppose  this  is  one  of  the  things  that  men  and 
women  are  temperamentally  incapable  of  seeing  with  the 
same  eyes ;  but,  whoever  the  father  was,  whatever  the  his- 
tory, I  should  have  imagined  that  any  woman  would  fight 
for  her  child  against  all  the  powers  of  creation;  it  was 


362  SONIA  MARRIED 

like  a  stab  when  Sonia  first  said  she  hoped  the  child  would 
be  born  dead,  it  was  another  stab  when  she  begged  me — 
begged  me  to  promise.  ...  I  promised  right  enough ;  it  was 
the  only  thing  to  do,  but  I  can't  let  it  rest  at  that.  If  she's 
well  enough  to  talk,  I  want  to  make  everything  quite  plain 
to  her  now;  otherwise  I  must  explain  afterwards.  .  .  ." 

As  we  finished  dinner,  Lady  Loring  came  down  to  say 
that  Sonia  was  asking  for  her  husband.  I  was  not  present, 
I  am  glad  to  say,  at  their  interview,  but  it  did  not  last  more 
than  five  minutes,  and  at  its  end  O'Rane  looked  in  for  a 
moment  to  say  that  he  proposed  to  walk  as  far  the  House 
of  Commons  for  a  breath  of  fresh  air.  Neither  by  word 
nor  tone  did  he  invite  anyone  to  accompany  him;  and  on 
his  return  he  went  upstairs  without  coming  into  the  library. 
I  called  for  a  bulletin  on  my  own  account  before  retiring  for 
the  night,  and  Lady  Loring  warned  me  that  I  must  be  pre- 
pared for  anything  at  any  moment.  Sonia  had  worked  her- 
self from  hysteria  into  something  hardly  distinguishable 
from  delirium ;  forgetting  that  she  had  already  seen  her  hus- 
band, she  had  sent  for  him  a  second  time  and  a  second  time 
implored  him  to  spare  her  the  sight  of  her  own  child;  Lady 
Loring,  who  had  been  on  duty  all  day,  was  not  allowed  to 
rest,  and,  as  I  passed  the  door,  the  lights  were  burning  and 
I  caught  the  sound  of  voluble  chatter. 

For  an  hour  I  tried  to  sleep,  but  the  intermittent  hum 
of  voices,  the  creak  of  feet  passing  rapidly  up  and  down 
the  passage,  still  more  the  indefinable  suspense  kept  me 
awake.  For  another  hour  I  tried  to  read,  but  I  was  al- 
ways interrupting  myself  to  listen;  and  at  two  o'clock  I 
pulled  a  dressing-gown  over  my  pyjamas  and  returned  to 
the  library.  To  my  surprise  Bertrand  was  dozing  over  a 
boolc,  while  George  sat  writing  letters  on  his  knee.  Both 
looked  up,  blinking  with  dull  fatigue,  as  I  came  in. 

"I  wonder  how  long  this  racket's  going  on,"  Bertrand 
growled,  as  he  walked  across  to  fetch  himself  a  drink. 
"She'll  kill  herself  at  this  rate.  And— what— almighty  fools 
— the  three  of  us  are — to  be  here  at  all !" 


SANCTUARY  363 

"Has  Raney  come  back  yet?"  George  asked  me.  "I  was 
told  he'd  gone  for  a  walk — like  a  wise  man." 

"He  was  sitting  outside  her  door,  as  I  came  down,"  I 
answered. 

Grumbling  inarticulately,  Bertrand  went  back  to  his  book. 
George  looked  at  me  long  enough  to  see  that  I  was  too  tired 
to  talk,  then  began  a  fresh  letter.  I  prowled  in  front  of 
the  bookcases,  trying  to  find  something  that  I  had  the 
mental  energy  to  read.  It  was  shortly  after  four  when 
O'Rane  hurried  silently  into  the  room  and  telephoned  for 
the  doctor. 


Thirty  hours — the  fag-end  of  a  broken  night,  a  day  and 
another  night — passed  before  O'Rane  appeared.  The  pain- 
ful silence  of  the  house  was  violated  only  by  guardedly 
light  steps  and  hushed  voices.  Bertrand  and  George  took 
their  meals  at  the  club;  I  stayed  behind,  neglecting  my 
work  and  subsisting  on  tinned  tongue,  stale  bread  and  cold 
water,  to  run  errands,  answer  telephone  calls  and  carry  up 
trays  of  food  to  Lady  Loring.  At  first  I  believed  that  poor 
Sonia  was  trying  to  hypnotise  herself  and  intensify  her  own 
tortures,  but  in  time  a  new  gravity  settled  on  the  faces 
of  the  doctor  and  nurse. 

I  had  never  before  been  in  a  house  where  a  confinement 
was  taking  place;  I  do  not  wish  to  repeat  the  experi- 
ence. Whenever  I  carried  up  a  meal,  Lady  Loring  or  the 
trained  nurse  would  say  vaguely,  "I'm  afraid  she's  having 
a  bad  time,"  but  for  the  rest  I  was  left  to  myself  in  the 
great  silent  library  with  my  senses  strained  to  catch  any 
sound  from  the  familiar  white  bedroom  where  I  had  spent 
so  many  days  with  Sonia,  trying  to  distract  her  thoughts. 
O'Rane,  from  the  moment  when  he  telephoned  for  the  doc- 
tor, had  been  with  her.  There  was  some  ineffectual  at- 
tempt to  banish  him  from  the  room,  but  Lady  Loring  after- 
wards let  him  stay  and  admitted  that  his  personality  was 
keeping  Sonia  from  the  surrender  which  she  sometimes 
seemed  ready  to  make. 


364  SONIA  MARRIED 

When  he  came  into  the  library  at  breakfast-time  on  the 
second  day,  his  clothes  were  shapeless  and  dusty,  his  face 
unshaven  and  grey  with  fatigue. 

"The  doctor  says  it's  a  boy,"  he  told  me  hoarsely.  "Is 
there  any  water  in  the  room?  I've  had  nothing  to  eat  or 
drink  since  first  I  went  up  there ;  and  then  I  must  get  some 
air  into  my  lungs." 

He  sighed  and  dropped  limply  on  to  a  sofa. 

"How's  Sonia?"  I  asked  him. 

"They  can't  say  yet.  She's  doped.  They've  given  her 
as  much  as  they  dare,  as  much  as  her  heart  will  stand. 
.  .  .  My  God!  I'm  glad  I'm  not  a  woman!  I  can  under- 
stand their  having  one  child,  because  they  don't  know 
what's  in  store  for  them,  but  their  courage  in  having  a 
second  .  .  .  !" 

I  poured  him  out  a  cup  of  coffee  and  buttered  him  two 
slices  of  toast. 

"I  wouldn't  try  to  talk  overmuch,"  I  told  him. 

"It's  a  bit  of  a  relief  to  me,"  he  answered  with  a  smile. 

"All  this  time "  He  lifted  his  right  hand  above  his 

head  and  began  stiffly  to  open  and  shut  the  fingers.  "I  was 
gripping  her  wrist,"  he  explained ;  "I  only  let  go  twice,  and 
the  first  time  it  was  bruised  purple,  as  if  she'd  shut  it  in 
a  door.  .  .  .  And  nobody  said  anything.  .  .  .  Sonia  kept 
getting  spasms  of  pain  which  made  her  moan  or  cry  out, 
and  her  nerve  gave  way  from  time  to  time  .  .  .  and  then 
I — I  tried  to  hypnotise  her,  I  found  that  by  repeating 
'Sonia,  Sonia,  Sonia,'  very  distinctly  and  very  low,  I  could 
capture  her  mind.  .  .  .  God!  how  it  got  on  my  nerves!" 

The  first  cup  of  coffee  was  followed  by  a  second,  which 
he  gulped  in  scalding  mouthfuls,  asking  at  short  intervals 
what  the  time  was  and  how  long  he  had  already  stayed 
away. 

"Violet  and  the  nurse  are  pretty  well  beat  out,"  he  ex- 
plained; "I  want  to  pack  them  off  for  a  bit  of  a  rest  while 
I  mount  guard.  And  we've  got  to  shift  the  boy  before 
Sonia  comes  round  ..." 

"You're  not  moving  him — yet?" 


SANCTUARY  365 

"Only  to  another  room.    I — I  promised  her,  you  see." 

He  bade  me  a  hurried  good-bye  and  disappeared  up- 
stairs until  the  middle  of  the  afternoon.  George  came  in 
after  luncheon,  put  half  a  dozen  breathless  enquiries  and 
returned  hot-foot  to  his  office.  Bertrand  had  a  question  in 
the  House,  but,  as  soon  as  he  could  get  away,  he  came 
and  demanded  a  full  report. 

"You  don't  gather  when  the  child's  to  be  moved?"  he 

said,  when  I  had  done.  "I This  is  an  extraordinary 

business,  Stornaway.  I've  lived  a  devil  of  a  long  time 
and  I've  done  some  pretty  odd  things  and  mixed  with  some 
pretty  curious  people  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  but  I'm 
hanged  if  I've  ever  done  anything  like  this  before.  What 
are  we  all  up  to  ?  I  feel  I've  been  stampeded." 

"Well,  neither  of  us  is  doing  anything  very  active,"  I 
pointed  out,  looking  at  my  cigar  and  book. 

"We're  countenancing  it.  If  you  sat  by  and  watched 
a  drunken  man  making  pipe-lights  out  of  five-pound  notes 
.  .  .  What  have  they  decided  to  do?  I  don't  understand 
them;  I  can't  keep  pace  with  them." 

In  so  far  as  I  had  been  admitted  to  O'Rane's  confidence, 
he  had  decided  to  keep  the  child  in  London  until  it  could 
be  safely  moved  and  then  to  send  it  with  its  nurse  to  a  cot- 
tage which  he  had  mysteriously  acquired  on  the  South 
coast.  And  there  his  plans  for  the  time  being  had  ended. 

"He's  apparently  committing  himself  to  three  house- 
holds," Bertrand  cried.  "The  first  because  his  wife  re- 
fuses to  live  with  him,  the  second  because  he  wants  to  make 
his  friends  believe  that  they  are  living  together,  the  third 
because  he  requires  a  home  for  his  wife's  child,  which  in 
time  will  come  to  be  regarded  as  his  child.  ..." 

"/'ve  got  no  influence  over  him,"  I  said  in  protest  against 
his  tone  of  injury. 

Bertrand  shook  his  head  gloomily. 

"When  once  he's  made  up  his  mind — it  doesn't  matter 
how  fantastic  a  thing  may  be.  .  .  ." 

The  door  opened,  and  O'Rane  came  in  to  repeat  his  re- 
quest of  the  morning  for  water  and  any  food  that  was 


366  SONIA  MARRIED 

available.  He  had  found  time  to  shave  and  change  his 
clothes,  but  I  have  never  seen  a  man  more  utterly  ex- 
hausted. 

"Is  there  any  news?"  Bertrand  asked. 

"She's  doing — very  fairly,  I  think,"  he  answered  with 
a  drawl  that  was  almost  a  stammer.  'The  effect — drug, 
you  know — wearing  off.  She  woke  up — for  a  few  moments. 
Now  getting  some  natural  sleep/5 

I  put  a  stiff  dash  of  brandy  into  the  water  and  watched 
O'Rane's  grey  cheeks  colouring. 

"Did  she  seem  comfortable?"  I  enquired. 

"Comfortable?"  he  repeated  with  a  laugh.  "The  physi- 
cal relief,  you  know.  .  .  .  Whatever  happens  now,  she's 
free  from  pain,  she's  bound  to  feel  better  and  better.  .  .  . 
When  I  was  wounded,  there  were  times  when  I  thought  I 
couldn't  bear  it;  the  nurses  told  me  that  I  said  quite 
clearly,  'It's  no  use  hurting  me  any  more ;  I  can't  stand  it/ 
Dear  souls!  as  if  they  could  help  it!  And  one  did  stand 
it.  ...  But,  when  the  pain  began  to  abate,  when  you 
didn't  have"  to  keep  yourself  braced  up  against  it,  I  went 
as  limp  as  a  rag.  It  was  like  the  end  of  a  long  fever.  .  .  . 
After  that,  whether  I  was  asleep  or  awake,  I  always  knew 
that  the  real  hell  was  over.  There  might  be  little  twinges 
in  unexpected  places,  but  the  pain  was  over,  over.  And 
the  feeling  of  weakness  was  so  delicious !  Like  an  endless 
repetition  of  the  glorious  moment  when  you're  just  dropping" 
off  to  sleep.  .  .  .  That's  how  Sonia  is  now." 

The  next  report  came  after  dinner,  when  the  doctor  had 
concluded  his  evening  visit  and  she  had  been  put  to  sleep 
for  the  night. 

"She's  had  a  frightful  time,"  he  told  us,  "and  there's 
always  the  possibility  of  a  relapse,  but  I  know  she's  not 
going  to  relapse,  I'm  not  going  to  let  her." 

"And  the  child?" 

"Oh,  he's  all  right." 

The  next  morning  O'Rane  joined  me  at  breakfast  after 
a  night's  unbroken  rest.  Despite  a  mild  protest  from  the 
nurse,  he  had  insisted  on  staying  in  Sonia's  room  and  had 


SANCTUARY  367 

•slept  in  nis  clothes  on  the  floor   for  twelve  hours  on  end. 

"She's  had  a  wonderful  night,"  he  told  me,  exultantly. 
"And  the  boy's  doing  magnificently.  They  seem  to  think 
it'll  be  reasonably  safe  to  move  him  to-morrow.  And  then, 
if  all's  well  with  Sonia,  I  shall  go  back  to  Melton.  I  shall 
only  want  to  talk  to  her,  if  I  stay  any  longer;  and,  as  it  is, 
if  a  board  creaks  or  anyone  touches  the  bed  .  .  .  That 
good  angel  Violet  has  promised  not  to  go  until  everything's 
all  right.  Don't  you  think  she's  been  wonderful?  Violet 
Loring,  I  mean.  I'd  got  no  sort  of  call  on  her." 

"I  don't  know  that  the  baby  upstairs  has  any  great  call 
on  you,"  I  answered. 

"We — ell,  you  can't  open  an  account  with  a  thing  twenty- 
four  hours  old,"  he  laughed.  "I  say,  Stornaway,  I  had 
no  idea  that  babies  were  so  small.  Hullo,  that's  Violet's 
step!  There's  nothing  wrong,  is  there?" 

Lady  Loring  had  come  in  to  say  that  Sonia  was  asking 
for  him.  He  hurried  upstairs,  leaving  his  breakfast  un- 
finished, and  did  not  return  for  a  couple  of  hours.  I  asked 
him  whether  there  was  anything  amiss,  for  there  was  an 
unfamiliar  frown  on  his  face. 

"No,  but  it  was  curious  .  .  ."he  began  hestitatingly. 
"You  remember  how  she  made  me  promise.  .  .  .  Well,  I 
went  in  and  asked  her  how  she  was,  and  she  said  she  was 
feeling  better.  .  .  .  And  then  she  asked  about  the  child 
.  .  .  wanted  to  know  whether  it  was  a  boy  or  a  girl  .  .  . 
wanted  to  know  how  it  was ....  It  ended  by  my  carrying 
him  in  for  her  to  see .  .  .  .1  was  in  two  minds  whether  to 
do  it,  because  she  was  working  herself  up  to  a  pitch  of 
great  excitement,  but  I  thought  it  would  only  make  things 
worse,  if  I  refused.  She  wanted  to  see  what  he  was  like, 
you  know,  whether  there  was  even  the  remotest  resem- 
blance. .  .  .  She  gave  a  sob,  when  I  brought  him  in,  and 
said,  'He's  got  my  eyes/  I'm  afraid  the  whole  thing 
excited  her  rather.  She  suddenly  got  the  idea  that  she 
oughtn't  to  have  asked  me  to  bring  him  in.  Poor  mite !  he's 
not  responsible  for  his  own  father,  and  I  told  her  that  if 
we  started  quarrelling  over  a  thing  like  that  .  .  .  An- 


368  SONIA  MARRIED 

other  curious  thing,  Stornaway;  I  have  always  imagined 
that  I  should  hate  the  very  existence  of  the  child;  when 
I  was  first  told  what  was  the  matter  with  Sonia,  I  felt 
that  there  was  a  sheet  of  fire  between  us.  I  don't  feel  that 
now ;  I  feel  that  Grayle  has  passed  utterly  out  of  our  lives. 
As  for  punishing  that  poor,  helpless  little  creature  .  .  . 
I  suppose  you  hate  babies,  but  I  wish  you'd  have  a  look  at 
this  one  and  tell  me  what  he's  like.  I've  always  thought 
what  fun  it  would  be  to  have  a  son  and  watch  him  growing 
up.  .  .  .1  should  have  thought  that  Sonia,  that  any 
woman,  after  all  she's  gone  through  .  .  .  Still,  when 
youVe  been  treated  as  Grayle  treated  her,  when  you've 
waited  in  dread  and  horror  all  these  weary  months  .  .  ." 
He  broke  off  in  perplexity,  which  only  lifted  when  he  sud- 
denly began  to  smile.  "You  will  have  a  look  at  him,  won't 
you?  And  tell  me  what  he's  like.  He's  going  to  the 
country  to-morrow." 

After  dinner  that  night  I  made  my  way  to  the  bedroom 
which  had  been  temporarily  converted  into  a  nursery.  It 
was  dark  and  empty,  and  I  walked  to  the  door  of  Sonia's 
room  in  search  of  Lady  Loring.  A  low  sound  of  voices 
penetrated  to  the  passage:  I  knocked  and  went  in  to  find 
O'Rane  standing  by  the  bed  with  a  thickly  swathed  child  in 
his  arms,  while  his  wife  lay;  with  her  hand  in  Lady  Lor- 
ing's,  looking  up  at  him. 

"I  hope  you're  feeling  better,"  I  said  to  Sonia. 

"David  says  you  haven't  even  seen  him  yet,"  she  pouted, 
disregarding  my  words.  She  stretched  our  her  arms  to  the 
slumbering  child.  "Darling,  you're  being  rather  left  out 
of  all  this,  aren't  you?  But  if  you  will  go  to  sleep  when 
the  loveliest  things  are  being  said  about  you  .  .  .  My 
blessed,  I've  waked  you!" 

There  was  a  half-perceptible  movement  under  the  long 
shawl.  O'Rane's  arms  began  to  rock  gently. 

"Take  him  back,  David,"  Sonia  begged.  "And  then 
just  come  in  for  one  moment  to  say  good-night.  I  feel 
so  feeble  that  I  simply  can't  stand  more." 

As  he  left  the  room,  Lady  Loring  nodded  to  me,  and  I 


SANCTUARY  369 

prepared  to  follow  her.  Sonia  was  lying  with  closed  eyes, 
but,  as  I  moved,  she  raised  herself  and  beckoned  with  one 
hand. 

"Mr.  Stornaway!  Just  one  moment  before  he  comes 
back !  They  want  to  take  my  baby  away.  I  know  I  asked 
them  to,  but  that  was  before.  .  .  .  You  won't  let  them, 
will  you?  He's  mine,  mine!  David  thinks  I'm  saying  it 
because  I  ought  to,  because  everybody  would  expect  me  to, 
but  I'm  not!  On  my  honour  I'm  not!  I'd  go  through  it 
again  rather  than  let  them  take  my  baby  away." 

"He  won't  be  taken  away,  if  you  want  to  keep  him,"  I 
promised  her.  "Good-night,  my  dear  Sonia.  Go  straight 
of?  to  sleep  and  don't  worry  about  anything.  If  you  want 
your  child,  David  won't  try  to  steal  him.  You're  sure  you 
want  him  ?" 

"David?" 

"I  meant  the  boy." 

A  smile  dawned  on  her  tired  face. 

"I  want  so  much !  I  always  have ....  Oh,  I  know  you 
despise  me,  and  you're  quite  right.  I  despise  myself.  But 
I  must  be  loved,  I  can't  get  on  without  it.  And  I've  been, 
oh!  so  lonely!" 

She  gave  a  little  sob.  I  felt  a  hand  on  my  arm  and 
turned  to  find  Lady  Loring  shaking  her  head  and  pointing 
to  the  door. 

"Tell  me  anything  I  can  do  to  help  you,  Sonia,"  I  said, 
"and  I'll  do  it.  Now  good-night.  You've  got  to  go  to 
sleep,  and  I  shan't  let  David  even  say  good-night  to  you/' 

I  met  O'Rane  in  the  passage  and  carried  him  off  to 
the  library. 

"Lady  Loring  wants  to  get  her  off  to  sleep,"  I  explained. 
"You  and  the  child  between  you  have  rather  excited  her. 
If  you  will  take  my  advice,  you'll  go  back  to  Melton  by  the 
first  train  to-morrow.  The  two  of  you  are  wearing  each 
other  out.  I'll  do  whatever's  necessary  here." 

"But  I  can't  leave  her  yet." 

"You  can  and  must.  You've  got  your  work  to  do. 
O'Rane,  you  may  remember  that  I've  advised  you  a  good 


370  SONIA  MARRIED 

many  times  to  face  facts  and  end  this  business.  In  your 
greater  wisdom  you've  always  refused " 

"You  never  seemed  to  appreciate  that  I  loved  Sonia." 

"Indeed  I  did.  But  I  thought  we  agreed  that  there 
were  some  tests  which  the  greatest  love  in  the  world 
couldn't  survive." 

He  took  up  his  stand  by  the  fireplace,  smiling  to  himself 
and  rocking  gently  from  heel  to  toe  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets. 

"I  thought  so,  too.  But  wouldn't  it  be  a  fair-weather 
love?  I  treated  Sonia  badly,  and  she  treated  me  worse. 
Until  I  married,  I  always  thought  that  marriage  was  an 
easy,  straightforward  business;  you  just  fell  in  love,  and 
there  was  an  end  of  it.  If  I  spoiled  her  life  because  / 
hadn't  the  imagination,  the  consideration  .  .  .  I'm  sorry, 
Stornaway,  I  can't  discuss  it.  One's  pride  is  rather  in- 
volved. I  always  said  that  I  loved  her  more  than  a  man 
had  ever  loved  a  woman  before;  if  I  can't  prove  it  .  .  . 
But  I'm  boring  you." 

"I'm  only  tired.  So  are  you,  so's  everyone.  We'd  bet- 
ter all  go  to  bed.  Promise  me  one  thing.  If  you  go  in  to 
say  good-night  to — your  wife,  don't  stay  more  than  a 


THE  END 


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